A Million Sherds
by miloowen
Summary: A psychological study of the effects of child abuse on an adult survivor. When William Riker shows the symptoms of severe complex PTSD, Picard and the treatment team he forms must delve into the darkness of Will's childhood in order to save him. This story is not for the faint-of-heart. Min. AU. The relationship is Picard/Riker.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Come," the captain said.

I walked into his ready room. "Sir? You wished to see me?"

"Yes, Number One," he said. "Sit down. There's a matter I wish to discuss."

I pulled the chair over and sat in it. I was a little confused, not being aware of any matter at hand, but curious.

He looked up at me. "I've been speaking with Dr Crusher," he began. "I understand you have been in her office several times over the past six weeks."

Okay, at least I knew what the subject was now. "Three times, sir," I said. "In eight weeks."

"Holodeck accidents?" He looked down at the padd on his desk. "A broken collarbone? Two fractured ribs. A dislocated shoulder, contusions, and a concussion. That," he said, "was last week."

"Sir."

"What have you planned for this week, Number One? Broken legs? Jaw? Herniated disc, perhaps?" His look was not exactly friendly. "Just what the hell is going on?"

I shifted in my seat. "Just a vigourous program, sir," I said. "Perhaps a little too vigourous," I added ruefully, grinning.

"Is there a joke that I'm missing, Mr Riker?"

He was angry. He was covering it well, but he was angry. I drew in my breath. "No, sir," I said. "No joke. I'm sorry to have taken up your time with this, sir. I'll be more careful in the future."

"Indeed." He stood up. "I'm not entirely convinced of that, Number One."  
"Sir?" Now I was back to being confused again.

"You see," he said, coming around the side of the desk, and leaning against it, so that he was looking down at me. "I took the liberty – I'm sure you don't mind – of reviewing your current holodeck programs."

"You what?" I said. This was a breach of privacy and protocol.

"You have to understand, Will, that Dr Crusher contacted me," he said, sounding a little bit more conciliatory. "She is thinking of grounding you."

"What?" Now I was flabbergasted.

"Look at your injuries," he said, reasonably. "More and more severe. I told Dr Crusher that I would find out the source of the problem and talk to you, before she takes you off the bridge and sends you to Deanna. I assume," he said, wryly, "that this is not an issue with Deanna you wish to discuss?"

"Captain, there's no issue," I said. "Perhaps the program's too much, or I've been a little careless. You've warned me now, sir. It won't happen again."

"Well, the problem is, Will, that I don't believe you," he said. "I believe the problem will get worse. And it needs to be sorted out. You need to be sorted out, or I'm afraid that I will have to concur with Dr Crusher's assessment, that you are currently not fit for duty."

"But – "

"Yes? Is there a program you'd like to explain to me in particular?" he asked.

Oh. I felt the colour rise in my face.

"It seems to me, William," he said, gently, "that there is a theme running through your most recent programs. One that worries me."

"Sir." What had happened to my day? I'd gotten up. It had been a perfectly ordinary day. A little fun in engineering with Geordi, a good class in the morning, an interesting discussion with Data, and then it ends up with death by embarrassment.

He bent down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Look at me," he said.

Oh, God. If it were possible to just die now – I looked at him. "Captain – "

"Why, William, do you feel the need to punish yourself? What exactly have you done to deserve such treatment?"

"I'm not – "

"You are. You have created this incredible persona – I must hand it to you, it's superbly crafted, and it's held up so many years. The perfect Mr Riker, yes? Brave, loyal, strong, kind, compassionate, dutiful, funny, and saviour – don't deny it – of the Federation. So what did you do? Did you snap at Geordi? Tease Data? Pull a prank on Worf? What exactly have you done that doesn't fit in your Mr Perfect mold, so that you feel this obligation to negate yourself?"

"Please – " My eyes were welling with tears. I was overwhelmed with the urge to just overturn the chair and run away.

He let me go then, and he leaned back against the desk. "The program that I saw, Will," he said quietly. "It was very abusive. And I couldn't figure out what you were getting from that level of abuse. And then it came to me – you didn't have to be the persona you'd created in that particular program. You didn't have to be anything. And it occurred to me, having seen you on shore leave – you don't even give yourself a rest then, do you? Even on Risa you're still playing the persona, still being the macho Commander Riker. But I know you, Will. You are not the persona. So now what? Which is cracking? The persona, or you?"

"I – I don't know what to say," I muttered. And then I realised that he'd been in the program - I looked up at him. His eyes were full of kindness and concern, nothing else. Did he pity me? I wondered. Was he ashamed of me? I couldn't see anything in his eyes, not even the acknowledgment of what he'd done when he'd been in the program with me. What he'd done. He'd kissed me. I would have to transfer.

"I took the opportunity to dig a little deeper," he was saying. "You are mirroring the injuries you sustained as a child. Injuries that are very suspicious in a child, Will. I've never personally liked Kyle Riker, and fortunately for me, I haven't dealt with him all that often. But I looked at your childhood medical records and I discover that the man was systematically abusing you. Yes?"

"It wasn't abuse," I said, looking down. "I was difficult."

"Really? And if there were a child on this ship, who was showing up in sickbay with broken bones and contusions, what would you do?" He sighed. "Don't answer, because I know what you would do. What else did your father do? Besides beat you and emotionally abuse you? Will?"

"Nothing," I whispered.

"Yet you were hospitalised once with tearing in your rectum. How does a child have that happen?"

"I don't remember -"

"If you'll pardon my saying so, bullshit." He sounded angry again. "Why didn't Starfleet do something? Or the local authorities?"

"They did," I said.

"After the bastard abandoned you."

"Please let me be dismissed," I said. "I'll stay out of the holodeck. Sir."

"Oh, that's not the point, and you know it," he said. He paced around the room for a minute, before stopping at the replicator and ordering his usual tea. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

I shook my head. He sipped the tea and then placed it on his desk.

Data came over the comm. badge. "Captain?"

"I'm busy, Mr Data," he said. "Unless it's a Romulan warbird uncloaking, I'm busy."

"No, sir, it is not," Data replied. "I understand, sir. Data out."

"So what now, Will?" he asked.

"I'll have to transfer," I said. My hands resting on my knees were shaking, and I resisted the temptation to wipe my eyes.

"Because I was there with you?" he asked. "That is part of what this is about, isn't it?"

"You – "

"Took advantage of you? Perhaps," he said, "but I don't think so. I felt such sorrow, watching you." He paused, and then he said, "Is it really so terrible, Will, to fall in love with your captain? It's not against the rules, you know. We are both at comparable ranks. You could have been captain now, many times over, and have been acting captain too often for me to count. It doesn't fit in with your persona – but then, you are not your persona, are you?"

"I don't know what you want me to do," I said, finally.

He came down to me again, lifting my face so that I had to look at him. "Do you think that I would reject you? Abandon you, too? Because," he said, and he brushed my hair off of my forehead, "I can assure you that I would do neither."

He let me go, and moved back to his desk. He picked up the mug of tea, but then he didn't drink it. I tried to absorb what he said. My thoughts were spiraling. I didn't know how we had gotten here – and I didn't know what to do, now that we were here.

"I – I thought you were only attracted to women," I said.

"Clearly not," he replied.

He was waiting for me to say something but I felt as if my head would explode.

"Will?" he said now. "Can you let the persona go? Here? You don't feel safe, even now, to tell me what you want?"

"I don't disgust you?"

"_Mère de Dieu_," he said. "How could you possibly disgust me?"

"The program – "

"—was a cry for help," he finished. "You're brave enough to face the Borg. Are you brave enough to ask me for what you want?"

I'd been holding my breath, without realising it, and I let it out slowly. "I love you, Jean-Luc," I said, and watched that carefully-constructed William T Riker shatter into a million sherds on the floor.

I was enveloped in his strong arms, then, and he kissed me on the top of my head. "_Finalement_," he said. "I will very happily give us both the day off, Number One, if you will accompany me to my quarters. Lunch, perhaps?" He brought my face up to him, and kissed me softly.

"Perhaps," I said, and kissed him back.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

When he was six, his father let him join the local Little League team, only because Matt, from two cabins away, was also joining the team and Matt's parents (his dad was part of the park service, and his mom was an artist) could take him to practises and games. William – now that he was six, he refused to call himself Billy anymore – had always played with Matt when he had the chance to, so he was pretty happy about getting to play baseball with him.

Matt's older brother had taught William how to throw a fastball correctly, and had helped Matt learn how to play shortstop, so tryouts were a breeze. Both boys were athletic: Matt was smaller but very fast, with good hands; William was taller and stronger, and he threw pretty darn fast for a kid who was only six years old.

Of course this first year was mostly coach pitch, but when both Matt and William made the team, Coach Mike promised that he'd let William throw batting practises and that he'd continue to teach William how to pitch.

Practises were Tuesdays and Saturdays, and the games were Mondays and Wednesdays. Nobody ever asked William where his father was; they all knew his father was in StarFleet and rarely home. And William never said anything about wishing his father could be there. Coach Mike and Coach Ben – they were both dads of two of the players – found it a little odd that William never said anything about his father, and that they'd only seen Kyle Riker once, to sign William up, something Matt's dad couldn't do for him. Since William was a plucky little kid, and seemed happy enough, they let it be. They were simply too busy trying to teach six and seven-year-olds the basics of what has always been a complicated game.

William discovered that while he wasn't the fastest runner on the team, he could steal a base, because he could read when the pitcher was going to release the ball. He had such long legs that it was easy for him to make the tag before anyone else even knew what was happening, and he was pretty good at first base, too, with his long reach.

He liked it. He liked running around and letting off steam. He liked eating sunflower seeds and spitting them into the dugout, seeing who could spit them the farthest. He liked singing "Hey, batter, batter" and "No batter, no batter." He discovered that if he said silly things to the catcher, the catcher would often miss the ball, and the runners could advance. He discovered that he could talk trash to the first baseman, and then take off for second, and the other team would stand around and look like the losers they were. He could reach his long arms out and stop a ball from going into right field, and he could take the wild throws from the little kid who was their third baseman. He and Matt and Sammy, who was their second baseman, developed a rhythm together, and would even make double plays sometimes, a pretty decent accomplishment for kids at the coach pitch level.

It took him a while, but he started to get the hang of it at the plate too. He remembered that Matt's brother had said to picture in his head where the ball would be, and he found that was something he could do. He learned to dig in at the plate, and take his time, and not fidget, and by the middle of the season he could hit a homerun or two, using those long, strong legs of his to just push into the ball. Coach Mike let him hit fifth, and then finally, towards the run for the championship, William found himself hitting clean-up.

They always went out for pizza or hamburgers after the games. They weren't the best team in the league, but they were pretty good, and it was obvious that they were in contention for the championship at their level. The kids who were first and second in the league would be placed in the pool for summer All-Stars, and it was pretty clear that William and Matt and Sammy would be on that summer team.

They were at Nick's, the pizza place, and crowded into the booths, four and five little kids apiece, all thirteen of them, with Coach Mike and Coach Ben and some of the parents sitting far enough away that the kids could have fun but close enough to monitor hurt feelings and spills.

William was squished into the end of the booth with Matt and Sammy and the only girl on the team, Rosie. Rosie was their catcher, a big stocky Aleut girl with hands like bear paws. The kids teased her that she didn't need a catcher's mitt, and she would just cross her black eyes at them and laugh. They liked Rosie, she could hit better than William, and she could stand herself right in front of home and make a little kid wish he were dead rather than slide into her. In fact, William liked everyone on the team, even Jesse, who pretty much sat out most of the games because he was the smallest and could barely throw the ball. Jesse was funny, and he could make the soda they drank on pizza night come out of his nose. That alone was worth a spot on the team.

They'd won their game, by ten to six, and William had hit a double, and a homerun, and had stolen a base. They were feeling pretty pleased with themselves, and they were very busy stuffing themselves full of cheese and chips and blowing bubbles in their drinks to make them fizz. William was sitting next to Rosie and Matt, and they were talking not about baseball, but about dogs.

"The puppies will be ready next week," Rosie was saying. Her family raised sled dogs, and those pups that for some reason her parents thought weren't going to be working dogs, would be sold as pets.

William wanted a dog. Desperately wanted a dog. He'd seen Rosie's puppies, and there was one little pup – not the smallest, but one that clearly was going to be a pet – with a white chest and white paws and a white tip on its tail that he'd fallen in love with. He could picture his puppy sleeping on his bed, and he could picture teaching it how to play catch and shake hands. He could see running through the woods with his dog, and taking her fishing, and coming home from school with her waiting on the porch for him. He hadn't asked his father, but he'd talked about it to Mrs Shugak, who was his babysitter when his father was away. She'd thought having a puppy to care for was a good idea and William thought her feelings would certainly be more important than his own when he presented his case to his father.

"I can come see them again tomorrow?" William asked. He tried not to sound too eager. He knew already that he should be happy just to be playing baseball, and there was a small voice inside his head that told him that asking for a puppy on top of playing baseball was probably too much.

"Sure, after practise," Rosie agreed.

"Cool," William said. Rosie lived next to Matt; it was light long into the night now, and it was no big deal to walk to Rosie's after practise. He thought about the puppy. He'd already chosen a name for her, although he hadn't told Rosie. He'd gone onto his padd to look at names for dogs, and had discovered that one-syllable names were often recommended by trainers. He was going to call his puppy Bet.

That was when the door to Nick's opened and William's father walked in. He was a short stocky man and William didn't look at all like him. Sometimes William wondered (most often when he was safely in bed and he could hear his father rattling around downstairs) how his father could be his father at all. They didn't seem to have much in common, except that they both had blue eyes.

Nobody else seemed to notice among the kids, but William stopped talking and sort of shrunk back into the  
booth. Rosie noticed this; she was an intelligent girl from a very large family, and she'd seen William's behaviour before, in some second cousins she saw in the summertime. No one else recognised William's behaviour, least of all Coach Mike or Coach Ben.

They got up out of their booth, and welcomed Mr Riker by shaking hands, and offered him some pizza and a beer.

Kyle Riker turned them down. "I'm just here for Billy," he said.

It took Coach Mike a minute before he realised that William and Billy were the same child; everyone called him William.

"Sure," Coach Mike said. "William, your dad is here."

As if William didn't know. Rosie and Matt had to pile out of the booth and they did so quietly. Rosie did something she'd never done before; she gave William a quick hug. He looked at her when she hugged him with his dark blue eyes and Rosie was suddenly afraid.

She said, "I'll keep your pup for you, if you like."

"Okay," William said, hugging her back. "Thanks."

"Don't forget about practise tomorrow, William," Coach Mike said.

William had never once forgotten about practise. "I won't," he answered.

"He hit a homerun tonight," Coach Mike told Kyle Riker. "He won us the game. He's a great kid, your son."

William walked over to his father, and he looked at the floor. "I didn't win the game," he said softly. "The team did."

Coach Mike grinned. "See, he's a great kid," he said. "The lynch pin of our team."

"What do you say, Billy?" Riker looked down at his son.

"Thanks, Coach Mike," William said automatically.

"Let's go," Riker said, and wrapped his hand around his son's arm.

William didn't say anything in the aircar, just sat quietly in the back. He didn't like to sit in the front seat with his father because his father said he fidgeted too much. The cabin had the porch light on and Riker parked the car under the carport and waited for William to get out.

"You won the game?" he asked as they walked up to the porch.

"Yes, sir," William said.

"And the score?" Riker asked as he opened the front door.

"Ten to six."

The door opened, and William ducked through, not because the door was small, but because the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. The door closed behind him and he heard his father lock the door.

"And you hit a homerun?" Riker turned the light on in the living room and went into the kitchen, leaving William standing in the small foyer of the cabin. "Billy?" he called from the kitchen.

"Yes, sir." William left the foyer, and stood next to the sofa in the living room.

His father came out of the kitchen with a beer.

"You do anything else?" his father asked, standing there in the middle of the room.

William knew where this was going, and a tear slid down his cheek.

"I hit a double, I stole a base, and drove in three runs," he said. Then he said, and he didn't know why, except that he suddenly wanted, even more than his puppy, for his father to just once be pleased with something he'd done. "Coach Mike says that I've already been picked for All Stars this summer. And that they'll let me pitch. My fastball is pretty good."

'You got an A minus on your science report," Kyle Riker said. "What was that about?"

William felt his stomach cramp. "I got points off because of spelling," he whispered.

The blow knocked him across the room and into the coffee table. William hit his head, and he lay quietly on the floor for a minute. He didn't know whether he was hurt, and he knew better than to cry.

"Get up," his father said.

"Yes, sir."

William got up and the look on his father's face made him want to clutch at his penis so he wouldn't wet his pants. Kyle Riker took off his belt, and he dragged William over to him, and bent him over the sofa.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" he said as he yanked William's baseball pants, and his jock, and his sliding shorts off.

"No," William said. "I don't, Dad. I don't."

"You're just a little punk-assed kid," Kyle Riker said. "That's all you'll ever be."

William said nothing, because there was nothing to say. His nose was running but he didn't dare move.

"Answer me," Riker said.

"Yes, sir," William said, and he started to cry.

"What are you?" Kyle Riker said.

"I'm a little punk-assed kid," William repeated, his face pressed into the sofa.

He sobbed as his father brought the belt down, using all his adult strength against the boy's buttocks, and thighs, and lower back. William tried not to scream, but in the end it didn't matter, because no one would hear him anyway, and no one ever seemed to care to.

"Try sliding into base now, you little asshole," his father said when he was finished. "Go to bed."

"Yes, sir," William said, and he gathered up belongings and headed up the stairs, blood trickling down his legs.

He crept into the bathroom, and used the rag to wipe himself off, and then he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He emptied his bladder, and hoped fervently that the amount of urine in the toilet meant he wouldn't wet the bed; something he usually did after his father would beat him.

He didn't bother to turn on the light in the bedroom. He stripped and put his pajamas on – they were baseball pajamas that Mrs Shugak had bought him for his birthday – and he lay down on top of the quilt. He didn't cry; he just lay there. He thought maybe his father would take away playing for the baseball team now, and he knew deep in his heart that his father would never let him keep the puppy. Then he remembered that Rosie had promised she would keep Bet for him, and it felt just a little bit better. The truth was that maybe his father would hurt a puppy, especially if the puppy did things like not try its best, or make a mess on the floor. Maybe Bet would be safer with Rosie and he could visit her every day and still play with her. Bet already knew she belonged to him, anyway, and Rosie knew how to feed and train dogs.

When his father came in later in the night, and whispered that he was sorry, and did the painful things his father always did that somehow seemed to make his father feel better, William didn't cry, and he didn't struggle; he just let his father kiss him and stroke him and take him, because he knew that his beautiful puppy would always be safe, even when he wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I'd gone back to my quarters, since I'd been given the day off, to change out of my uniform and to try to regroup before I was supposed to meet the captain for lunch. He'd given me an hour, but it took twenty minutes to shower and change and then there was all that time left over. My stomach was roiling and I doubted very much that there would be any chance of my being able to eat anything. That is, if lunch were really on the agenda – oh, God. I sat down on the sofa in my dayroom and put my head in my hands.

What the hell had happened? How had a perfectly normal day ended up with my life being turned upside down? And what the hell was the matter with me, anyway? He was right, of course, as he always was, that I was perilously close to being unfit for duty. I wasn't sleeping. Oh, I could go to sleep all right. But then I'd wake up at two, or three, or sometimes even four, in the morning, with my heart pounding and my head throbbing as if I'd just run five miles or jumped out of an airlock. At first I thought maybe I was having nightmares about the Borg again. It had taken almost a year to recover from them, to let go of the nightmares and the anxiety attacks and my constant need to check on the captain to make sure he was okay. But I didn't have any memory of any dreams at all, least of all dreams of the Borg. I was just waking up in a full adrenalin surge.

And he was right, too, that the holodeck programs – there were three of them – were crazy. He hadn't given me any indication that he'd reported the content of them to anyone else, more specifically Beverly or, God help me, Deanna. I could just imagine Deanna's face when faced with the program – the truth was, I was making myself ill. Even now I was fighting the urge to go into the bathroom and puke. Just what the hell was the matter with me?

I had told the captain the truth. I had told him that I loved him. I'd known it for a while, certainly in those weeks after he'd come back to us from the Borg and he was so fragile. Maybe I'd been aware of it even before then, I don't know. But I'd put the knowledge and the feelings in the back of my head, in one of those deep file cabinets that everyone keeps, right, with all the knowledge that you don't want anyone – including yourself – to know. Especially if you have a certain chronically nosy half-Betazed onboard. So if I'd been hiding it from myself, how come he knew? And did that mean that Deanna knew? That everyone knew?

It was as if I were in a feedback loop. My head was starting to hurt, behind my eyes, the way it always did when I'd been crying.

And where had that thought come from? I'd shed a few tears in his ready room, surprising the shit out of me, but I hadn't been crying, had I? I haven't cried in years, except when Tasha died, and when I was forced to treat Data so badly in his trial. So why should I be having a sinus headache, and how on earth do I explain why any headache should be linked to the way I was feeling?

Except that he'd mentioned my father. Well, I wasn't going there.

It was almost time to leave. Did I really want to do this? After all, what was I going to do, really, besides have lunch with the captain?

Fuck. I was truly losing it.

It took me ten minutes to walk to his quarters, because I didn't want to be early, and I didn't want to look stupid. I pressed the door chime, and he told me,

"Come."

He'd called me brave, but it still took me a minute or so to walk through the door. He'd changed out of his uniform, too, and was wearing those loose-fitting trousers he always wore, with a light-coloured tunic. He had a glass of wine in his hand.

"I've a good wine here from my brother, Will," he said. "Or, if you prefer, there's some Irish whiskey in the cabinet over there."

"In the middle of the day, Jean-Luc?" I asked.

He grinned as if he were a naughty schoolboy. "What the hell, Number One," he said. "I've given us both the day off, after all."

I felt a little calmer, and I smiled back at him. "I'll take the whiskey, then," I said, "if you don't mind."

"Help yourself," he said.

I found the bottle and took the small glass he offered me. "Ice?" he asked.

"Neat," I said, and took a sip. There was the pleasant, smooth burn of good whiskey going down my throat. "When did you pick this up?" I asked.

"When I went home last," he said. "Robert had it for me, to take back to the ship, along with a case of our wine."

"It's good," I said.

He sat on the sofa, seemingly calm, or at least calmer than me. "Sit, Will," he said.

"Sir," I answered, and pulled the other chair over.

"Here," he said, "on the sofa. Next to me."

Oh, God. I sat.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked. "Or just nerves?"

"Second thoughts?" I echoed.

He gave a small smile and reached for my hand, and then took it in his, which was warm and surprisingly strong.

"I did invite you for luncheon," he said, "but I thought that a counselling session might be in order first."

"Counselling? Don't we have a ship's counsellor?" I asked.

"Yes, a very fine one," he answered, "and one who has some intimate knowledge of some of your issues. However – " he said, and he looked directly at me, "I think this is a job I ought to take on myself."

"My issues?"

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

This was the second time today that he'd totally lost me. Maybe I was stupid.

"No," I said. "How did you know that?"

He reached over with his other hand and touched underneath my eye. "Dark circles, Will," he said kindly. "No real magic, there. Just observation." He let his hand linger, and I felt myself begin to tremble. "It's all right," he said softly. "For this kind of counselling, Will, you just have to let go."

He pulled me in to him and kissed me, his lips dry and soft.

"Can you allow yourself this?" he asked. "If I offer you the kind of love and affection you seem to want, can you be brave enough to take it as it's offered?"

"It's a very unorthodox form of counselling, sir," I said, letting him kiss me again.

"True, Number One." He grinned. "It's one I'd thought would appeal to you, though."

I couldn't help it; I laughed.

"There we go," he said. He suddenly wrapped me in his arms, and brought my head against his shoulder, and I could feel him kissing me on the back of my neck. "That's the Will I'd like to have back, if I can."

I could feel his heart beating, and his hands were caressing my back, and his lips were brushing along my ear.

"That feels good," I said, and I could feel all of that anxiety just sort of drifting away.

"Mmmh," he murmured. "There's only one small problem, Will." His lips were right next to my ear.

"What's that, Jean-Luc?" I felt his hand slide down to my crotch, and he squeezed me gently.

"You're wearing too much," he said, and he was opening my trousers and then pushing me back onto the sofa.

He kissed me again, pressing into my mouth, and when we broke for air, I said, "I'm not sure that this is the type of counselling Starfleet had in mind, sir."

"I'll leave the details out of my report," he answered. Then he said, "This sofa's too damned small, Will," and he pulled me up and gently led me in towards his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

William's father didn't take the baseball team away that summer, because there was a problem somewhere, and he had to go to fix it, and Mrs Shugak came to stay. She offered to let William bring his puppy home from Rosie's, but William turned her down. He liked keeping Bet with Rosie. Rosie showed him how to train her, and together they went for long walks in the woods, he and Bet and Rosie and her dog Patch. If William didn't play very well for a week or so after his father had taken him home, nobody ever said anything. After all, he was only a little kid, and his coaches didn't expect high school level consistency out of a coach-pitch team.

So William's father never saw William play in the championship game for his level, which they won, and he never saw William get chosen for All-Stars. True to form, the coach of the All-Star team allowed William to pitch, and convinced Mr Shugak that William should be at the next level the next year. Mrs Shugak was against it; William's birthday was in August, past the cut-off time, which was July, so he technically had another full year of coach-pitch to go. But he was so big, and he could throw fast, and somehow it got worked out, and William knew that he would be pitching when the season started the next year. All-Stars was fun; playing with Rosie and Bet was fun; Mr Shugak made him laugh, and Mrs Shugak was her usual quiet and competent self.

Mrs Shugak's children were all grown up, but she had grandchildren, and one of them came to stay. William was a little worried that his father might not like it, but Mrs Shugak promised that she'd already spoken to his father and gotten permission. Dmitri was ten, four years older than William, but William was almost the same size. Dmitri's parents were part of the tribe's salmon fishery; they were going to be away for a month and Dmitri would stay with his grandmother.

William tried to be friendly. He was, after all, a reasonably friendly child, and most people – even kids – were charmed by his smile and his blue eyes. He was active and he was silly, and that only added to his charm. Aside from William's father – and William tried not to think about the reasons why his father didn't like him very much – William had never really met anyone who didn't like him.

Dmitri didn't like him. Dmitri took an instant dislike to William's smile and his big blue eyes. The first time William turned the full wattage on him, Dmitri scowled and said,

"What are you, a girl? What do I care how cute you are?"

William was insulted. People called him cute all the time, but not ten-year-old boys. "I'm not cute!" he responded in an outraged voice. "Call me that again and I'll punch you out."

"I'd like to see you try," was Dmitri's reaction, and Mrs Shugak had to break them up.

Dmitri hated baseball. "That's for mainlanders," he said when William showed him his trophies and his gear. Dmitri played hockey because he had Canadian cousins.

"I like hockey," William said, insulted again. He was good at hockey. He was good at any sport.

"I like hockey," Dmitri repeated in a very high voice, and Mrs Shugak had to separate them again.

William knew you were supposed to be good to guests. Even though William had no Aleut blood himself, he was a sourdough; hospitality is ingrown. Guests are important; they are meant to be treated better than oneself. He invited Dmitri to come hiking in the woods and berry picking with Rosie and Patch and Bet. On the edge of the park one never travelled anywhere without a dog for protection; in the middle of berry season it was twice as important to have a dog.

"I'm sure," William said to Dmitri, "that you can borrow one of Rosie's other dogs."

"Why would I want to go out in the woods with a baby and a girl?" Dmitri asked. "Honestly, Willy-am, why don't you just leave me alone?"

William was beginning to feel very familiar with outrage. "You are my guest," he said, and he tried to sound like a grownup. "I am supposed to invite you places and include you. Those're the rules."

Dmitri snorted. "And of course Mr Federation follows the fucking rules."

William would not be outdone by one Dmitri Gorin. "Don't fucking come with us, you fucking asshole," he said. "Stay here with your fucking grandma."

This time Mrs Shugak didn't separate them until there were black eyes and bloody noses.

William was eating a sandwich with Rosie in her yard near the kennel.

"You've met Dmitri," he said.

"Auntie Tasya's grandson?" Rosie asked.

"Yeah."

Rosie bit into her sandwich. She broke off a piece and handed it to Bet, who looked at William first before being allowed to take it. "What about him?"

"I fucking hate him," William said.

Rosie threw herself down on the ground laughing.

"It's not funny." William stood on his dignity.

"You said fucking!" Rosie screeched, still laughing.

William rolled his eyes. "Even my father says fucking," William said.

"Fucking, fucking, fucking!" Rosie repeated.

William sighed. "What do I do about Dmitri?" he asked.

Rosie tried to calm herself down. "Just beat him up," she advised.

William said, "I did. I gave him a black eye. It didn't do any good. He's still a jerk."

"How much longer does he have to be in your house?" Rosie said. She gave Bet another piece of her sandwich.

"I dunno," William said. "Forever, I guess."

He seemed so downhearted that Rosie felt bad. "I could get George and Pete to help you," she offered.

George and Pete were Rosie's older brothers. William brightened at the thought of a beat down involving himself, George, and Pete against Dmitri, but then he sighed. "No," he said. "It wouldn't be right, and Mrs S would be mad at me. She was really mad at me when I gave him the black eye."

Rosie looked at him slyly. "What did he give you?" she asked.

"A bloody nose," William said. Then he grinned. "His eye is all purple now, and my nose is fine."

"Well," Rosie said. "If I think of something, I'll let you know."

"Okay." William was downhearted again.

William knew he wasn't supposed to go down to the creek by himself. He was a good swimmer; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the water temperature and the speed of the rapids would make it impossible for any child who fell in the creek to last for long. Nevertheless, William decided that he was almost seven, and at almost seven, perfectly capable of catching a fish all by himself. He went into his father's study for the fishing gear, and that's where Dmitri found him.

"Are you supposed to be in here?" Dmitri asked.

"What do you care?" William said.

He'd gotten the tackle box down and was choosing a fly.

"Those are some cool flies," Dmitri said, looking.

"My dad tied them," William said. For once, he could say something nice about his dad.

"Take these two," Dmitri suggested.

"Okay." William was impressed; Dmitri had picked two of the best.

"Where are you going?"

"Down to the creek," he said. He thought for a minute, and then he said, "You want to come?"

Dmitri thought for a moment as well. "Yeah, sure," he said. "I don't have anything else to do."

That was something William hadn't thought of. Of course, Dmitri didn't have anything else to do. His parents had gone to salmon camp without him; Matt's brothers were away to the mainland; there was only William, and Rosie, and Matt, all of them seven years old. He felt bad for calling Dmitri a jerk. When he was ten, he wouldn't want to hang around a seven-year-old either.

"Okay," he said.

He took another rod out of the closet, and got his waders, and the creel, and his father's knife. Dmitri helped him organise everything.

"What will you tell my nan?" Dmitri asked.

William grinned. "Mrs S!" he called as he walked out of his father's study. "I'm going to Rosie's to see Bet!"

"Come back for supper," Mrs Shugak said. She was in the kitchen.

William laughed.

"I'm going with William," Dmitri called.

There was no answer to that.

The path to the creek was a rough one, but William had travelled it many times before with his father and with Mr Shugak. They were very careful to watch for both moose and bear; the summer was at its fullest, and the animals were well on their way to preparing for winter.

The creek was beautiful. William led Dmitri to the special deep pool on the other side of some riffles, and Dmitri was suitably impressed. They tied the flies to their lines, and then cast them into the pool. William wished that Bet was with him; he knew he wasn't supposed to be this far away from the cabin without an adult or a dog. Still, Dmitri was older and a lot more experienced, so he felt sure they would be okay. And while he really hoped he would catch a fish, he knew it was unlikely.

The boys stayed in companionable silence. They cast their lines in to the pool with a patience born of children brought up in the bush. Finally Dmitri got a bite, and expertly he tugged the line to secure the fish, and then reeled the trout in.

"It's a keeper," William said, impressed.

It was a beautiful fish, about four pounds or so, the red and silver of its scales glistening in the dappled sunlight. Dmitri put the fish in the creel and cast again. William hoped that he could catch a fish too, even though he was glad that Dmitri had caught one first. Maybe Dmitri wouldn't be so mad at him all the time. For the next hour they cast and recast, until the long summer afternoon was coming towards a close. William was getting hungry; he knew it must be close to supper, and that if they didn't show up on time, Mrs Shugak was sure to send at least Mr Shugak out to look for them.

Suddenly he got a bite. He gave a short tug to his line; the fish grabbed on, and he pulled it, reeling it back in. Dmitri put his rod down and grabbed the net to scoop the fish up as soon as it was near them. William could see the fish glistening beneath the water; it was putting up a fight, and he let out a whoop of joy as he brought it in. It was a big one, all right, at least bigger than Dmitri's, and as he swung it towards him Dmitri bent down to swoop it into the net and fell in.

For one stunned minute William stood there near the bank of the creek, the water pressing against his waders, the fish still tugging on his line. Dmitri yelled, and then tried to stand up, but he was too close to the pool, and as he stepped into the hole, he went below the crystal clear water of the creek. William threw his rod down, and, without thinking, dove in after Dmitri. Water cascaded into his waders, just as they had done to Dmitri's, and the weight of it pulled him down too, down into the deeper, colder water of the pool. The current was surprisingly strong, and William opened his eyes as he went under the water to see Dmitri already flowing past him, down towards the middle of the creek.

William was only seven years old, but he had had wilderness survival skills ingrained into him the way some children learn their alphabets. He pushed towards the surface of the water, and struggled briefly and finally successfully to kick off the waders that were holding him down. He could float just fine, and he let himself coast on the surface of the water while he looked around for Dmitri. All thought of his fish, and his father's rod, and everything else had vanished; he didn't know how well Dmitri could swim, and he didn't really understand the concept of the water temperature and its affect on both of them. He saw Dmitri surface, about seven feet from him, and he pushed forth with those long, strong legs of his towards him. Death is a concept not foreign to the children of the bush; William had already lost his mother, years before; every year cheechakos died when they came to hunt and fish. Dmitri tried to yell at him but swallowed water; William knew better than to open his mouth – it was the one thing his father had hammered into him when they went fishing.

Dmitri had found a branch and was clinging to it; William reached him with the help of the current and grabbed hold. They were closer to the other side of the bank now than the one they'd walked in on. William wrapped his long arms underneath Dmitri's shorter ones and kicked off from the branch toward the bank. Dmitri knew better than to resist; he was cold and exhausted already, and he relaxed himself into William's half-hold as he pushed them both to shore.

Climbing out of the creek was not easy. Their hands were frozen; their clothes were sodden and heavy. William half shoved and Dmitri half climbed onto the bank, and then Dmitri helped pull William up. The two of them sat there, not speaking, their bodies already shivering even though the afternoon sun was still quite warm.

Dmitri recovered first. "Strip," he said to William.

William nodded, knowing at once that the best thing to do was to quickly shuck off their wet clothes. They did so, teeth chattering, not speaking. They didn't have to say anything; they knew how much trouble they were in. They were on the wrong side of the bank; no one knew where they were. They had drifted maybe twenty feet or so down the stream.

"Leave our clothes here," Dmitri said. "We need to get back across from where we were."

William didn't want to do it. The rule was to stay where you were, to find vegetation to make a nest if you had to, but to wait for someone else to find you. The side of the bank they were on was more overgrown; they would have to cut through and around the shrubs and berry bushes to get back to where they'd been. Still, they shouldn't separate either. If Dmitri insisted on trying to get back, William would have to go.

"We should stay right here," William said. "Your nan will miss us and send a party out to find us. They'll have the dogs. We'll be okay."

"We should go back," Dmitri said stubbornly. "We'll be easier to find if we're right across from the trail."

"But – " William protested.

Dmitri set his jaw, and William knew he was defeated. What could a seven-year-old do against a ten-year-old, anyway?

"It's a bad idea," William said. "My dad says – "

"Your dad," Dmitri said scornfully. "My father is on the tribal council."

"All right," William agreed. "But it's still a bad idea."

Dmitri rubbed his arms and jumped up and down a few times. Then he headed back in the direction of the trail, through the scrub. William followed, sucking in his breath as he was scratched by twigs and thorns. He was hungry and thirsty, and he could tell by the colour of the light that it was nearly supper time. Mrs Shugak knew he was rarely late. She would call Rosie's house. Rosie would say William had never shown up. Then the search would be on.

Ahead of him, Dmitri fell and swore. William caught up with him, but didn't say anything, because Dmitri looked mad. Together they struggled silently through the scrub until at last they came to the pool where they'd been fishing. Their gear, of course, was on the opposite side of them; the creel and Dmitri's rod. William's rod and fish had fallen in the water; as had the net. Both boys had lost their waders. Dmitri cleared a place and sat down, wrapping himself in his arms, and William did the same. Their briefs were still soaking and William hated the feeling of the damp, cool ground and his wet briefs.

"My gramps is going to kill us," Dmitri said.

William had never seen Mr Shugak angry, but two soaking boys, Kyle Riker's missing rod, and the basic disobedience of going to the creek would be enough to make any grownup angry. Other children said things like, "My parents will kill me;" William knew it didn't really mean anything when other kids said it; he knew that Mr Shugak would never do anything to Dmitri. But as he sat there next to Dmitri and shivered and waited for the Shugaks to figure out that they were in trouble, he was very, very grateful that his father was not home.

William should have known it wouldn't last. They had been found, and the Shugaks had been happy, and then mad, and then happy again. Dmitri had told over and over and over again how it was William who had saved him from drowning in the creek; William's quick thinking; William's good swimming. He had even bragged that the fish that William had lost was way bigger than the fish he himself had caught. William was embarrassed by the attention, but glad that Dmitri didn't hate him anymore. There was even an article about him, with a picture of both boys. The Shugaks grounded them both; even to not allowing William to go to Rosie's to see Bet unless an adult was with him. Dmitri's parents came back from camp to pick him up; it was almost time to go back to school, and William's father came home.

The transition from the Shugaks to his father being home again was always difficult. But this time there was a big fight, because of what happened. William's father blamed them for not keeping a closer eye on William. He blamed Dmitri, for being a bad influence. Even though William knew what it meant – he really knew what it meant – he stuck up for his new friend.

"It was me, Dad," he said as he stood in the kitchen doorway, listening to the fight between his father and Mr and Mrs Shugak when he was supposed to be in bed. "I decided to go fishing. I asked Dmitri to come. It was all me."

His father said nothing.

William said, "I lied to Mrs S about where I was going to be. She trusted me. I told her I was going to Rosie's and it was a lie."

Still his father said nothing.

"William, go to bed," Mrs Shugak told him.

"I lost your rod in the creek," William said. "I took your gear. I did it all."

His father said, "Mrs Shugak told you to go to bed."

William was desperate. "It was my fault," he whispered.

"Billy, go to bed," his father repeated.

"Yes, sir."

He turned around and went up the stairs to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed and waited. He heard Mr and Mrs Shugak leave the house. He heard them start their aircar and drive away. He heard his father go to the refrigerator – Mrs Shugak had bought a case of beer when she'd learned that William's father was coming home. He heard his father come up the stairs. He waited for his father to open the door.

When it was over, William spent five hours in the emergency room. His collarbone was broken, as were two ribs. It was easy for the doctors to see what had happened, but William told a story about how he'd decided he could climb to the roof of his cabin, and how he'd fallen, all the way to the ground. Kyle Riker was an important man. A nice lady came to the house; William showed her where he'd fallen. Somewhere a report was generated.

And William learned that it didn't matter if ultimately you'd been a hero. What mattered was not that you'd saved someone's life, but that it was your mistakes and bad decisions that had caused the situation to develop to begin with; and that the consequences to those mistakes were swift and brutal. It was a lesson he wouldn't forget.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

I couldn't breathe. My throat was constricted; the pain in my chest was excruciating. I struggled for air, struggled against the weight pressing down on my chest. My arms were pinned behind me.

"Will. Just breathe," a voice beside my ear said.

I opened my eyes.

"Deep breath," instructed the voice. "That's it. Now let it out. Good. Again."

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. I could feel myself breathing, could feel the weight being lifted from my chest.

"Are you awake now?" the voice asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Good. I'm going to let your arms go, if you promise not to fight me."

"Yes," I said.

My arms were unpinned.

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm in your quarters," I said, and; I'm in your bed, I thought.

"Keep breathing," he said. "It's all right. You're safe, here. Just breathe."

I could feel the panic subsiding. "I'm sorry," I said. I'd had another one of those episodes where I woke in full adrenalin surge; I could just imagine what he thought of that.

"I'm going to put my arms around you," he said. "May I?"

I turned towards him. "Yes," I said.

He sighed, and wrapped his arms around me. "You do not have to apologise," he said. "Did I hurt you? I had to hold onto your arms fairly hard."

My arms were sore. "No," I said.

"Good. I was afraid you would do yourself an injury." He kissed me lightly on the cheek. "How long has this been happening?"

"A while," I admitted.

"A while," he echoed. "A week? Two weeks? Eight weeks?"

I shifted, and felt him pull me back.

"I don't know," I said.

"You've had these before now?" he asked.

"Waking up like this?"

"Night terrors, Will," he said. "They're called night terrors."

"I'm not dreaming," I said. "I'd remember, if I were."

"No." He kissed me again. "Night terrors are not dreams."

I tried to think. "Not on the _Enterprise_," I said. "I don't remember ever having them here, not even after the Borg."

"But you've had them before."

"Yes."

"It's all right," he repeated. "You won't have them again tonight. Just let me hold you."

"I'm sorry," I said. "You said I was fighting you?" I shuddered.

I could feel him smiling. "Relax, Will," he said. "You were panicking. Nothing I couldn't handle. And nothing," he said, somewhat sternly, "to be embarrassed about."

But I was. Embarrassed. Or perhaps mortified is a better word. You spend years longing for something – even if you don't admit it to yourself – and then it finally happens, and you go and screw it up.

"I think," and I was trying for lightness, "that perhaps I ought to ground myself."

He let me go, and sat up. He had a small reading lamp, and he turned it on. I sat up too, propping up the pillow behind me.

"Not so far away, Will," he said, smiling, and I moved closer to him. "There, that's better," he said, and draped his arm around me. "I wouldn't," he said, and it was in his usual deliberate way, as if he were weighing every option – as if it weren't the middle of the night, with his first officer in bed with him. "I would suggest a small vacation. You have enough leave time built up to take off for the next three yeas, if you wished to."

"As do you," I said. "Except that you could probably take off ten years."

"Ah, well, boredom, I'm sure, would set in." He grinned at me. "Take off a week or so, no more than ten days. We're not doing anything, just this survey. Everything is remarkably calm."

"Q will probably show up," I said, morosely.

He laughed. "Don't say his name in vain, please," he said. "You being here with me would undoubtedly infuriate him."

That was funny, and I laughed. He pulled me close and kissed me.

"Don't go anywhere, stay shipboard. Read a book, play some music. Light, easy stuff," he said. "No holodeck unescorted, I'm afraid."

"I'll delete the programs," I said. I was beginning to be on a first name basis with mortification.

"I already have," he said.

Oh.

"Relax, I'm not scolding you," he said. "Walk in the arboretum. Swim. Nothing terribly physical in your exercise programs, do you understand?"

"Yes," I said.

"No fighting with Worf," he added.

"I get it, Jean-Luc," I said.

"Cheeky bugger," he said. Then he said, "I'm taking you to Beverly in the morning, Will. Now that I know what your sleep problems are –Beverly should run a scan to make sure nothing neurological is wrong – she should be able to help."

"Neurological?" I asked.

"Mmmh," he said, suddenly sounding sleepy himself. "Night terrors are a neurological issue. Something about being caught in non-REM sleep or something, I don't even remember now. I don't know about you, Will, but I'm knackered."

"Okay," I said.

He shut the lamp off. "D'you think you can sleep now?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Come here, then," he said, and he slid back down into the bed.

This time I wrapped my arms around him, and he was asleep before I could even fix the pillows. I could feel him breathing against me. He'd been surprisingly gentle with me when we'd made love, and I found myself wondering how he really felt about me. Clearly he'd been worried about me for some time; clearly there was a depth to his feelings for me that I'd never even considered. Aside from flirting with Q, which seemed to be more designed to annoy Q rather than to have much substance to it, his shipboard company had been female, and yet he'd shown to me that he knew exactly what he was doing in bed with a man. I supposed, sighing, that the same could be said of me. In for a penny, in for a pound, my old babysitter used to say. I kissed him on his forehead, and found myself drifting, finally, to sleep.

"Will."

I opened one eye.

"I'm afraid I didn't give myself today off," he said softly into my ear. "You are welcome to sleep as long as you like."

It took me a minute to remember where I was. I was awake, then. "Should I be seen leaving your quarters, sir?" I asked.

He closed his eyes for a minute, as if he were asking for patience. "Do not,' he said, "'sir' me in bed."

"Jean-Luc," I amended.

"Up to you," he said, and despite the fact that it would have been barely dawn earthside, and neither one of us had had much sleep, he was wide awake and grinning. "It's my ship. I can do what I wish."

I rolled my eyes at him. "A side of you I rarely see," I said.

"Hah," he answered. "Just remember I'm taking you to Beverly when you do get up."

"That'll be awkward," I remarked.

"No more awkward than when you go chasing after every female you see and report back to Deanna about it," he retorted, and he swung his legs out of the bed.

"I do not report back to Deanna," I said.

"Likely story," he responded. "Oh-ten hundred, no later, yes?"

"Sir," I said.

He wheeled around, but I was laughing. "I thought you were supposed to be grumpy in the morning," he said.

"People lie," I said. "I am always the poster child for amiability."

"Dear God," he replied, and then he was back in the bed and pressing me against the pillows.

I pretended to struggle for a bit, but he would have none of it. This time when we made love, there was a playfulness about it that was surprising but gratifying.

"I could get used to this," he said.

I kissed him. "You're going to be late," I said. "You'll be hearing from Data."

"Oh, dear," he said. "I'm up. You are a bad influence," he said to me. "Do you want coffee? I'll bring you a cup."

"Cream only," I said. "No sugar."

He grabbed his robe and wrapped himself in it. I sat up, but before I could get up, he was back with my cup of coffee.

"Doesn't Beverly usually have breakfast with you, Jean-Luc?" I asked.

"Not every day," he said, and then he smiled. "And not today. I cancelled, yesterday."

I was impressed. "Your multi-tasking skills are a wonder to behold," I said.

"Oh, shut up, Will, and drink your coffee."

He disappeared into the head and I heard him run the shower. He came out dressed, immaculate as usual.

"Use the shower," he said. "I'll be on the bridge."

I had to bite my tongue not to say 'sir'. "Yes, Jean-Luc."

He just looked at me and shook his head. I could hear him laughing as he left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

William's father decided that it was time he stayed home. William missed Mrs Shugak terribly. He missed her cooking; she made huckleberry pancakes that were so warm and fluffy, and a wonderful moose stew. He missed her kissing him on the top of his head before he went up the stairs to his room at night. He missed her teasing Mr Shugak at the breakfast table in the morning; the way she looked at him when he came inside from having been out playing with Matt or Rosie or Bet. He remembered the year before, how he had made himself miss the mother he'd never known, and realised how silly it was, because Mrs S was almost his mother, the only one who'd taped his knees and washed his face and made him drink his orange juice (William hated orange juice). His chest felt heavy all the time, but it also felt empty, as if there were some sort of a hole there that nobody could see but he could feel.

His father had stopped touching him, had stopped hurting him, and had stopped doing the private things he'd done at night. William tried to be glad that everything had stopped, but he was so lonely; he missed being touched so much that he wished sometimes he could be brave enough to do something so bad that his father would have to beat him, just so he could feel those big hands on his shoulders and pressing into his back.

He let Bet lick his hands, and he let her put her sloppy wet nose against his arms, and he pressed his face down into her stinky doggie fur. Sometimes he would tackle her, and she would yelp and run around in circles, and then flop down on the ground with her soft belly up, and William would rub her and then rest his face against her. Rosie's mother watched William playing with Bet one morning, when school was just a week away, and she said,

"William, why don't you let me talk to your father, so you can bring her home with you?"

William knew that Rosie's mom was only trying to help. He wondered if maybe now he could bring Bet home. He thought about having Bet at the foot of his bed, of hearing her doggie snores and listening to the click of her toenails on the wooden floor, of having something warm and soft that he could snuggle with.

"No thanks, Mrs Kalugin," he said. "My father will be going away again, and I think Bet should stay here, if that's okay with you."

Rosie's mother looked at William, and she remembered how Rosie had tried to explain to her why it was necessary for Bet to remain with them. Rosie had promised that William would take care of her, and he had, coming over at least twice a day. Rosie's mother wanted – so much so that it physically hurt – to take William into her arms, and hold him tightly and tell him that one day he would be big and strong and things would not hurt as much – he had named the dog Bet, which had made her want to cry – but she did none of those things. He was not her son. She could only help him through Rosie, and through allowing the dog to stay at their home.

"Of course it's okay, William," she said now. "Bet will always have a home here. You take wonderful good care of her. You are so good with the dogs, much better than my boys."

William grinned. "It's easy to take care of her," he said. "She's such a good dog."

"She is a good dog," Rosie's mother agreed. "You've done a good job, training her."

William started school, and still his father stayed at home. His father bought a replicator – no one in the village had one of those – and that's how he prepared the meals for the two of them. William missed the smells of cooking. He missed hearing the clatter of pots and pans, of the clink of washing dishes in the sink. He'd seen Mrs S in the market, and she had asked him how he was doing, and then what he'd wanted for his birthday. She was very surprised when he told her, but she found one for children and wrapped it and delivered it to his house. It was waiting by his plate when he woke up on his birthday, along with the new fishing rod his father had bought him. William was glad to have his own rod, but it made him remember why Mrs S no longer took care of him. His father was curious about the present from Mrs Shugak.

"Why would she get you a book?" he wondered, sipping his coffee. "Do you even like to read?"

William didn't know what to say to that. Of course he liked to read. Didn't everyone? He was currently reading a book about a boy who'd fallen off a big ship and had been picked up by a fishing trawler like the ones Dmitri's parents owned, only the fisherman was Portuguese. It was a good book, even if the boy was a bit of a jerk, in the way that Dmitri had been before William had gotten to know him.

"It's a special book," he said to his father. "At least I hope it is." He unwrapped the paper carefully, trying not to rip it, not noticing his father's impatience, and how his father managed to mask that by sipping more coffee from his mug. William was happily surprised. He hadn't known that there were cookbooks made for kids, but Mrs S had found one, and he opened it up and saw at once that there were instructions and recipes that he could understand and easily follow. "See, it's a cookbook," he said, showing it to his father. "I can learn how to cook now. It's for beginners, like me," he said. "It has a chapter on food, and then it has recipes."

Kyle Riker stared at his son, taking in the familiar dark hair, curling just a bit at the nape, and the dark blue eyes, so much deeper than his own, and he said, "We have the replicator."

William didn't seem to hear him. "It'll be fun," he said. "I can start with breakfast, that looks pretty easy."

"Billy," his father said.

William put the book down. He'd heard that tone of voice before, but it had been some time since he'd heard it. "Yes, sir?" he said.

"We have the replicator," Kyle Riker repeated.

William considered his options. He wondered if it was because Mrs S had given him the book that his father was not happy. He wondered if it might be better – as it had been with Bet – if he should just leave the idea of cooking for another life. He wondered if he could try cute with his father – but he remembered that his father didn't like him much, and perhaps what worked with other people simply wouldn't work with him.

Finally he said, "I'd like to try, Dad. I won't make a mess, I promise."

His father said, "I'll keep you to that promise."

William didn't smile. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Stoves are not toys," his father said.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't want to be obligated to watch you every second of the day."

William thought about that one. There was a very little voice inside of him – one he usually never acknowledged – that said sharply, "Then why are you even here?" but William was smart enough not to say that aloud. Instead, he asked, "Could I make an appointment?"

Another parent might have melted, but Kyle Riker was a glacier. "You could," he said.

"Okay," William said happily, thumbing through his book. "Thanks." He glanced at his father, who was still watching him. "There's a recipe for pan fried fish in here," he said. "After we catch some fish, I'll be able to cook them."

If Kyle Riker realised he was being manipulated by his son, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he said calmly, "That's a good idea, Billy," and the matter was put to rest.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I'd showered and gone back to my quarters, and then, reluctantly, found myself in sickbay at oh-ten hundred, as I'd agreed. He – Jean-Luc, it was going to be hard for me to think of him like that – was already there, in Beverly's office, which made me wonder what exactly he'd told her – or wanted to tell her – before I showed up.

"Sit down, Will," Beverly said, and she was simply herself, as if perhaps he hadn't told her that he'd diagnosed my having night terrors while sleeping with me. "Jean-Luc says you're having night terrors; that you had an episode last night."

I sat, and didn't look at Jean-Luc. "Yes," I said. "That's what he says they are. I just thought I was waking up in an adrenalin surge."

"How long has this been occurring?" she asked.

I shrugged. "A couple months, I guess," I said, "but not every night."

"Often enough," the captain said, "to prevent you from sleeping regularly."

I sighed. "Yes."

"A couple months," Beverly repeated. "That's before, or after, your first holodeck injury?"

"Before," I said, after a few moments. "I'm pretty sure before."

"Something to investigate," he said to Beverly, "in terms of the diagnosis." He turned to me. "Will," he said, "I'd like to look at your log for the past several months."

"You don't have to ask me, sir," I said. Then I said, "You mean my personal log?"

"Yes, both," he replied. "I'm looking for what the trigger is, or was."

I was very uncomfortable. First the holodeck programs, and now my log. Suddenly I was very tired of being embarrassed, and of feeling as if I was constantly missing information. "Trigger?" I said. "And what diagnosis are we talking about here? The night terrors?"

"Will," he said, and he was speaking in that very mild tone of voice he used when he was asking you to pay very special attention to something. "I want you to calm down," and he took my hands, so that I had to face him, instead of Beverly.

"I am calm," I said.

He said, "Beverly, would you give us a moment?" and for perhaps the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours I simply wanted to disappear.

"Of course, Jean-Luc," she said. She looked rather sharply at both of us, I thought, but she didn't say anything else.

He waited until she left and then he said, "You're upset, and you don't have to be." He still held my hands in his.

"I – " I started, but I didn't really know what to say.

"What?" His voice was still mild.

"I feel," I said slowly, "as if I'm being ganged up on."

"Ah," he said, as if somehow that revealed everything he needed to know. "And you're angry?"

"I'm not angry," I said, but even as I said it I knew it wasn't true. I was angry, but I wasn't really sure who I was angry with or at.

"Will," he said again. "You've had a great deal to take in, over the past twenty-four hours. I think anyone would be upset in your place. But I want you to understand that no one is ganging up on you, as you put it."

"But –"

"Shhh," he said. "Stop. Think for a minute. Look at me."

"Jean-Luc," I said.

"You're here because I'm worried about you," he said. "Because I care for you, and because Beverly is concerned about you as well. It's what friends do, Will, when someone's in trouble. They try to help, and that's all that this is. We're trying to help you."

"I'm not in trouble," I said.

"William," he said.

I was silent, and the two of us sat there, with him still holding my hands. "I already grounded myself," I said.

"I know," he answered.

"What else do I have to do?" I asked.

"Listen to what Beverly and I have to say to you," he said, "with the understanding that I believe you are in trouble, and that you need my help, and Beverly's."

Beverly opened the door. "Jean-Luc?" she asked.

"I think he's ready to listen," he said, and she went back to her desk.

"Will," Beverly said. "The night terrors – if that's what they are, and from the captain's description of the episode, that's what it sounds like – are just a symptom. One of a cluster of symptoms that you've been presenting over the past few months, since that first holodeck accident."

"Symptoms of what?" I asked. "I don't feel ill."

"Don't you?" the captain said. "If you were being completely honest with yourself?"

I said, "You're doing it again."

I expected him to shut me down, as he'd done before, but instead he said, "You're right. I'm sorry."

I was so shocked I didn't say anything. I was quiet for a minute, trying to think about what he might be referring to. "I'm not sleeping," I said. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. "It's affecting my ability to pay attention. I'm careless, so I've gotten hurt. I'm – " I looked down, and I wanted to pull my hands away. "I'm irritable, I guess. And jumpy."

"And?" he asked.

"Over-emotional," I said, finally. "And these are symptoms? Of an illness?"

"Are you having flashbacks, Will?" Beverly asked.

"Flashbacks?" I was stalling for time. "You mean, like memories of the Borg or something?"

"Flashbacks are not really memories, per se," she replied. "It's like reliving a scene, like a waking dream."

"No," I said. "Are you going to tell me what you think I have?"

"Will," Jean-Luc said. "It's all right."

Beverly said, "I'm going to run a neurological scan to make sure that your sleep problems are night terrors. If they are, there's a medication that I can give you to help you. It won't make them go away completely, but it will make it less likely that you'll have them. It will also help you with your anxiety."

"Okay," I said. "And the diagnosis?"

"Is not complete," she said. "I'll let you know when I've finished the scan."

I sighed. "Fine," I said.

"Would you like me to stay here?" Jean-Luc asked.

"No," I said. "You've got a ship to run. I'll behave myself."

"Oh, Will," he said. "It's not a question of you not behaving." He let go of my hands and stood up.

"Isn't it?" I asked.

"No," he said. "You're anxious. If you want me to stay with you, I will. The ship can wait."

I stood. "I'll be okay, Jean-Luc," I said. "As long as Beverly doesn't keep me here all day."

"It will take thirty minutes at the most, Will," Beverly said, "and then you can enjoy your time off."

"I can handle thirty minutes," I said.

He looked as if he were going to say something, but then he just smiled, and he touched me lightly on my arm. "I'll be on the bridge, then," he said, "if you need me."

"We'll be fine," Beverly reassured him.

He nodded, and left the room.

"Come on, Will," Beverly said to me. "Let's get this scan done."

The first day of a vacation – unless it's one that you've spent months planning for at a special place – is a total washout, or at least it is for me. I'd gone from working my usual eight-hour beta shift, along with teaching two classes, handling personnel issues, and meetings with my department chiefs to doing absolutely nothing. I couldn't go to the holodeck by myself, and everyone else was working. Honestly, I didn't really want to go to the holodeck. I didn't know if I could really trust myself anymore.

I went to the gym after the scan – which had proved two things: one, I had night terrors, and two, it wasn't for neurological reasons. Everything physical is normal, which of course means that I am losing it, cracking up, or whatever anyone else wants to call it. My persona is shattering – that's what the captain had said. Fuck. Anyway, I went to the gym and worked out a bit, took a swim which was good, actually, showered there, and then came back to my quarters with nothing else on the agenda, except to look forward to yet another meeting with Beverly and Jean-Luc when they finally tell me what's going on.

Well, I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid, despite what many people think (or do I let them think that?), so I input my symptoms into my padd and came up with the big one: post traumatic stress disorder.

I read about it, and it seemed the whole ship had suffered from it after the Borg attack, including myself and the captain.

But we haven't had any new issues with anyone in a while, just the ongoing issues with the Romulans, and the Cardassians are gearing up to be a major pain in the ass. So it doesn't really make much sense to me that I should be having any problems of this sort now.

Except that when the captain talked to me yesterday – God, was it only yesterday? – he kept mentioning my childhood and my father. But that's over and done with – we'd come to somewhat of an understanding, I guess, after the Aries. He sometimes contacts me; I never contact him, although I do send a reply. I don't think about him. I don't think about Alaska, except my one fishing program. And yet the captain – why do I keep calling him that? – said that I was "mirroring injuries" that I'd gotten as a child, whatever the fuck that means.

Broken collarbone. And suddenly I couldn't breathe. It was as if an elephant just came in and sat right down on my chest. The pain was awful, just this dead weight, and I was gasping, and I just couldn't breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was dying. I continued to not breathe for what seemed like hours before the pain lightened just a little bit, and I could feel my chest heaving, as my lungs were sucking in air. I felt lightheaded and woozy. My lungs hurt. My chest hurt. I stood up and walked around, trying to work it out, trying to calm down. I felt trapped; like I was stuck in a Jefferies tube or something; I had to get out of here.

But there was really nowhere for me to go. This whole huge ship, and where could you go, if you didn't want to talk to anyone, and you were not allowed to go to the holodeck?

The door chimed.

"Come in," I said.

"I thought I'd see how you were doing," he said, smiling at me. "I already got the good news from Beverly about your scan."

I was not going to tell him about my waking night terror, or whatever it was that had just happened. He was already spending too much time worrying about me. Time to get over it; time to just get back to work.

"I'm okay," I said. "A little tired," and suddenly I was. Very tired. As if Beverly's medication had all of sudden just kicked in.

He sat down on the couch. "Nothing to prevent you from going back to bed, Will," he said.

"No," I answered. "I think that's what I'll do."

"I'm sorry about this morning. This – " and he stopped, as if he didn't know what words to use, "what I feel for you – what we might have – is very new to me too. And I'm far from perfect," he said, and he grinned. "I like to have everything fixed and shipshape, right away. It works well for ships; not so well for people."

"Is that what you were trying to do? Fix me?" I asked, but I was smiling.

He shrugged. "Why don't you come sit here?" he asked.

I did, and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

"I'm a little worried," he said, and as I started to sit up, he pulled me back against him. "Just stay here, for a minute, and hear me out. I don't want to make things harder for you, Will. I don't want to add to your stress, or make you feel overwhelmed. I don't want –" he paused, searching for what he wanted to say. "I don't want to take advantage of you, of your feelings for me. I don't know if I'm making any sense here."

"You're afraid that I'm not together enough to know what I want?" I asked.

"No," he said, and he let me sit back up. "No, I know what you feel for me, Will. I've known for some time. But I'm worried that my responding to you now is not going to help you. And yet," he said, "is it terribly selfish of me to say that I have truly enjoyed being with you?"

"You're allowed to be selfish, Jean-Luc," I said. "I've enjoyed being with you too. And – " I stopped him from speaking by bringing his face to me and kissing him," maybe I'm not one hundred percent right now. But I'm cognizant of the issue – if I think you're being overbearing, I'll just tell you to cut it out."

He laughed. "Is that a promise, Will?" he asked.

"Yes," I said; the anxiety that I'd felt when he'd arrived just disappeared.

We kissed again, his hands strong on my shoulders, pulling me into to him. The kiss deepened and I felt myself becoming hard.

"You're still on duty, Jean-Luc," I said, when we broke for air.

He sighed. "So I am," he said. "You'll be all right?"

"Yes," I said. "Although you're leaving me with a different sort of a problem."

He placed his hand against me. "This is a problem I could fix," he said seriously, and I just about fell off the couch.

"Go," I said. "You're incorrigible."

He grinned. "As you wish," he said. "How about meeting me at Holodeck Four around seventeen thirty?" he asked. "I've a program you might enjoy. Then dinner, perhaps?"

"I'm not riding any horses," I said.

"If there's any riding happening, Will," he said, "it won't have anything to do with horses."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

William had made his first appointment to cook on the Saturday after school started, and while he could tell his father was not exactly thrilled, he was patient and helped William with some of the questions he had. William had no problems following or understanding the recipes, and he seemed to instinctively grasp the chemistry behind the art of cooking. Two more sessions on successive weekends followed, and William was allowed free reign in the kitchen, to experiment as he wished, as long as he kept his promise to clean up.

William wasn't sure why his father was still home, except because who would stay with him if his father went away, since he could no longer see the Shugaks. He did see Mrs Shugak, of course, he just didn't tell his father. He met her on Thursday afternoons in the market. Thursday had always been her shopping day, and William had prevailed upon his father to allow him some credits, so he could do his shopping for the weekend. Mrs Shugak waited for him just inside the market, and then they would walk the aisles together, and she would talk to him about vegetables, and fruits, and fish, and meat. If anyone wondered about the pair of them, no one said anything; the village certainly knew not to say anything to Kyle Riker. Mrs Shugak's uncle Andrei ran the market, and when he learned that William was teaching himself how to cook, he would save something special to give to him – a nice chop; once, even a couple of blood oranges from the mainland.

School was somewhat of a disappointment. William was bright, very bright – and second grade was boring. He tried to be good, he really did. But he was an active child, and it was very hard not to fidget when he was already working on algebra and geometry at home with his father, and the other kids were adding and subtracting. Miss Anna was his teacher, and she was very nice, and he liked her, and all his friends were in his class. But it was still boring. Finally Miss Anna asked him to stay for a few minutes after the lunch bell rang.

"What do you like to do, William?" she asked him.

"I like to fish," he answered. "I play baseball in the spring. I wanted to play hockey, but my dad said no."

"How come?" the teacher asked.

"I hurt myself," William said. "My father thinks I could get hurt again."

"I see," she said. "Maybe a sport that wasn't so rough?"

William was interested. "Like what?" he asked. Then he said quickly, "I mean, like what, Miss Anna?"

Miss Anna didn't want William to be afraid of her, but she also didn't want him to be embarrassed. "Have you thought about taking a martial arts class? I hear Henry is teaching judo after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You might like that, and you wouldn't get hurt. You know Henry, he's very careful."

Henry was the school janitor and village fix-it man. He was a large man – probably as large as William would one day be – but he was also well-known among the schoolchildren for being cautious and safety-conscious.

"I could ask my dad," William said. "He might let me do that, as long as it's Henry."

Miss Anna smiled. William was very charming. "What else do you like to do?"

"I'm learning how to cook," William said. "I can make breakfast now. And I'm making dinner, two nights a week." Miss Anna looked a little surprised, and William explained, "My mom died when I was little. So it's just me and Dad. He doesn't like to cook, so I'm learning. It's fun."

Miss Anna had an idea. "William," she said, "I know you're learning math at home with your dad, right?"

"Yes," William said. He looked worried again. "You're not mad, are you? I'm probably not supposed to, am I?"

Miss Anna didn't know whether she wanted to hold the child or shake him. "Why would I be mad about you wanting to learn something?" she asked, smiling. "That would be a silly thing for a teacher to be mad about, wouldn't it?"

William thought about that, and then he smiled. "Yep," he said. "I guess that would be silly."

"If you like cooking," Miss Anna continued, "I think maybe you would like chemistry too. And since you're learning the math, I think it's something you could do. I'm going to make an appointment to talk to your father, and then we'll get permission from the principal. How does that sound?"

William was suddenly quiet. "It's not to say anything bad, right?" he asked. "You won't say I've been bored and fidgeting too much, will you? My dad – he doesn't like to hear that I haven't been doing my best." William's voice was very soft. "He doesn't like it when I fidget."

Miss Anna's stomach hurt, but she soldiered on. "William," she said. "You're going to take judo with Henry, right? That will take care of your fidgeting. You're just the kind of boy who needs to be involved with a sport all year, that's all. That's not a bad thing, William. That's just who you are. We teachers know that there are children who are kinesthetic learners. You're one of those learners. That's perfectly okay."

"It is?" He was still worried.

"Of course it is," she promised him. "We all have our own style of learning, even teachers." And she smiled reassuringly at him. "As for the being bored, I bet the chemistry will help. And I'll help you find some good books to read," she added. "And help you figure out some interesting projects to do. It'll be okay, William. I promise. Your dad won't be upset."

William wasn't completely convinced, but Miss Anna was so nice that he felt bad about disagreeing with her. When William came home with the note from Miss Anna, he was afraid that his father would yell at him, but instead, Kyle Riker agreed that taking judo lessons from Henry was a good idea. William was surprised to find out that his father knew a lot about martial arts, and that he knew judo and ju-jitsu and a special calming exercise called tai chi. William thought that maybe he should learn tai chi, so he wouldn't be so fidgety in school, but he decided he save that question for Henry to answer.

Kyle Riker took William to the meeting with Miss Anna and several other teachers, including two high school teachers, and the school superintendent. A program would be specially designed for William. For the first time in William's life, an adult asked him seriously what he wanted to be when he grew up.

"I want to go to the Academy," William said. "I want to be a Starfleet officer."

Mr Demetrioff was the high school physics and chemistry teacher. "That's a very rigourous course of study, William," he said. "You'll have to get top-notch marks in all your math and science classes. And you'll have to learn to fly."

William didn't look at his father. "I can do that," he said. "And I want to learn to fly."

The superintendent, Mr Davies, a mainlander who had been in the Valdez school system for many, many years, said quietly, "You shouldn't be surprised, Kyle. He is, after all, her son."

Kyle Riker said, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Maybe not," Gareth Davies countered. "But you won't deprive the child of his future, just because he looks like her and thinks like she did."

William looked at his father, and he looked at everyone around the room. He wanted very badly to hold himself, because he suddenly needed to pee. He caught Miss Anna's eye, and she smiled her warm, safe smile at him, and gave him a thumb's up. He looked down. Nobody ever spoke to his father that way. And nobody ever spoke about his mother. Not since he'd made a fool of himself in kindergarten.

"Starfleet killed her," Kyle Riker said. "I'm supposed to let Starfleet take my only child, too?"

Ever the peacemaker, William said, "Dad, I don't have to go to the Academy –"

Riker snapped harshly, "Billy, shut up. If you want to go to the Academy, you'll go. You're smart enough."

The room was quiet. No one liked the way Riker treated his son, but the boy was his, and so nothing was said.

"Then we're agreed on the program?" Gareth Davies asked. "Max? Paul?" They were the two high school teachers, Mr Demetrioff and Mr Levesque. "Anna?"

"It's agreed," Kyle Riker said. "Set it up. Whatever Billy needs, I'll supply. And if there's another child who can benefit from this program, I'll help supply for that child too."

"Kyle," Gareth Davies said, "there isn't another child in Valdez who could take this program. But thank you for the offer."

So it was set. William would take judo with Henry, and he would take chemistry, algebra, physics, and geometry with Mr Demetrioff and Mr Levesque. Miss Anna would keep him in her class with independent study projects in English and history and languages.

"Kyle," Davies said as they were walking out. "There's an entire village here, who loved Elizaveta, and who are willing to help you with her child."

"I don't need any help," Kyle Riker said.

William waited for everything to fall apart. He knew it would. He would wake up in the morning with his hair standing up on the back of his neck. He would come home from school and his father was there, waiting to go over his work, waiting to see the moves that he learned from Henry in judo class. William was very glad that Henry had agreed to teach him tai chi, because otherwise he felt he might have spent that fall throwing up every day. As it was, except for the two hours in judo with Matt and Rosie, who had decided to take it with him, and the hour he spent with Mrs Shugak on Thursdays, William's life was one long period of waiting for his father to decide what he was going to do. William hadn't been raised, as Rosie was, in the Russian Orthodox Church, so he didn't really know much about God or Jesus or the saints, not the way Rosie did, but Rosie had taught him how to pray, and so every night before he went to bed, and every morning when he woke up, he prayed to whomever was out there that something terrible would happen in the Federation and his father would be needed to fix it.

It happened on a Saturday. William got up early, because it was his job now to make breakfast, and it was something that he enjoyed doing, and it seemed to be something his father enjoyed too. So he went downstairs, and he put his father's coffee on, and he took out the eggs and the milk and the cheese and the peppers and the onions and the tomatoes, and set about making a frittata. He didn't have an omelet pan – you really needed an omelet pan, he'd decided, to make a good omelet, so he was going to ask for one for Christmas – but a frittata was just as good as an omelet, and he didn't have to worry about flipping it over. He was busily chopping vegetables and listening to the coffee perking away and so he didn't hear his father enter the kitchen.

"Where did you get that?" his father asked.

William hadn't felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise; he hadn't felt anything. He turned around cheerfully, and asked, "Where'd I get what?"

"Get it off," Kyle Riker said flatly. He had moved closer to the boy.

William was confused. "Get what off?" It had been almost two months since anything had happened; maybe that's why William didn't see it coming. Maybe little boys naturally have short attention spans.

His father reached out with his large hands, and grabbed the boy by the neck, and jerked him up. He ripped the apron off the child, and then he ripped the child's shirt off, and yanked his jeans down, and his briefs, and then he dragged the child out of the kitchen, smacking him over and over and over. William was so surprised he didn't even open his mouth, but when he realised where he was going, and what was going to happen, he began to scream. He continued to scream and wail as his father half-carried, half-pulled him up the stairs, and then when his father threw him on the bed he stopped, his chest heaving, his cries coming out in little half-gasps. His father took off his belt, and turned the boy over, and pressed him into the mattress.

His father brought his face close to William's ear, and he hissed, "Whore. Slut. Who the fuck do you think you are?" and he brought his broad hand down on William's naked buttocks hard again and again.

William could barely breathe. He could feel the air being squeezed out of his lungs as the weight of his father rested on him, and then as he heard the sound of his father's zipper coming down he began to gasp for air. When the air didn't come – because the pain was so excruciating that his whole body seemed to shut down – he went someplace far away, inside himself, where he didn't have to watch a little boy being raped by his own father. He didn't come back until he awakened in the hospital, and Mr and Mrs Shugak were there sitting by his bed, and his father was already on a ship taking him far away to some outpost in the Federation.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

I'd gone to bed after the captain left. I hadn't even bothered to change, just collapsed onto my bed and I was asleep in minutes. When I awoke I was groggy and disoriented, the way you are when you're not used to sleeping in the middle of the day. It was only fifteen-thirty, so that left me with time to get my wits together. I was hungry, so I ordered a sandwich and a glass of juice, and sat down and ate it at my desk, reading through my messages. There was one from Deanna, saying that Beverly had talked to her and asking me to make an appointment. Something to look forward to. And there was one from Jean-Luc, which read simply, "We are going to the beach. Dress appropriately."

I am not necessarily a beach person, although I do love the water. Sitting on the sand and getting it in one's suit, laying in the sun and getting burned are not exactly on my list of things I like to do. On the other hand, I do love to swim, and I know Jean-Luc's love of sailing (even if his idea of sailing is much more grandiose than mine) mirrors my own. He made no mention of what kind of beach, so I assumed I should just wear my trunks under my trousers and leave it at that.

I sighed. I kept replaying the meeting in Beverly's office in my mind, worrying at it, the way my dog used to worry at a stick or a bone. Jean-Luc had mentioned the word "trigger," when he was talking about my supposed illness, and so I went back to the site that explained PTSD and read about the concept. Assuming Jean-Luc and Beverly believed that my illness dated to childhood, my current symptoms would have been triggered by something – a smell, a sound, even a colour, according to what I was reading – that I associated with what the article called the inciting trauma. I'd started having the night terrors a couple of weeks before I'd fallen when I was hiking in the holodeck, so if Jean-Luc were correct in his assumption that it was childhood trauma that had precipitated this, there might be something I might recognise in my personal log. I still wasn't completely comfortable with the idea of him perusing my log, but then, after viewing my holodeck program, what could possibly be in my log that would be more embarrassing than that?

I shut the program down and then sighed again. There wasn't enough time to go back to the gym, so I went through my music and put on something smooth and light, Sarah Vaughan and the Cole Porter songbook. There was the nav class I was teaching and papers to read in that; also, Deanna had recommended a while back a new author from Betazed she thought I might enjoy. But the truth is, I like being busy. I'm good at multi-tasking. I hate sitting around and doing nothing. It makes me want to pick up a broom or a rag or something. And for some reason I remembered one year, when Mrs Shugak was still taking care of me while my father was away, that I was to be with her over the holidays. I must have been five or six, I guess. Usually the Shugaks stayed in my house, but, because it was over Christmas, I was staying with them instead. I remember standing on a chair in the kitchen, listening to music and smelling vanilla and cinnamon, helping Mrs S and her daughter Katya polish silver.

But then I felt a sharp pain in my gut, and suddenly I wasn't five or six. The smell of silver polish was overwhelming. It was in my nose and burning my eyes, sinking into my gut. I could feel the soft felt cloth in my hand, see the glint of my face in a small silver cranberry spoon, but I wasn't standing on a chair, I was sitting on the counter, my legs swinging down, and there was music playing, horns and bells, and the smell of silver polish, and cinnamon, and something copper….

I was in the head and throwing up, on my knees, cramped up against the wall, snot and food and tears all streaming out. I'd barely managed to get in there in time, and even after I'd thrown up everything that was ever in my gut for the last three years, I still hung over the bowl, my stomach heaving. For a minute or so I thought I would pass out, but then my stomach finally started to settle down and I was able to get up off my knees and clean myself up in the sink. I looked like shit. I cleaned up the toilet and ran the shower, using water this time, just allowing the head to fill with steam, so I could just stand there and force myself to relax.

When I came out of the shower I was startled to realise that it was almost time to meet Jean-Luc. Surely I hadn't spent an hour in the head, but it seemed that I had. I combed my hair and tried to make myself not look like I'd just gotten over some dreadful version of the 'flu. I found my pair of swimming trunks and put them on, and then pulled a pair of light khakis and a blue shirt on. I felt weird wearing sandals shipboard, so I just put on a pair of deck shoes; they would have to do.

He'd said something about dinner, and I didn't think I could look at food again, at least not for today, but perhaps I could just pretend to eat for his sake. Once again I could feel embarrassment creeping up on me. I really did need to get a grip. I've had about a half dozen relationships since I left the Academy, some serious and some just fun, and yet with Jean-Luc I felt like a fifteen-year-old. Not because, I don't think anyway, of his being male – I've had sex with men before, certainly, and one relationship that might have gone somewhere if he hadn't been posted to another ship – but because it was Jean-Luc. Stupid, because I'd wanted this, but there I was, feeling less than a hundred percent to begin with, and feeling like an infatuated kid on top of that.

I walked to the holodeck, meeting Geordi along the way. He'd heard that I'd taken some leave, and he was curious, but I told him I was just tired and needed to recharge my batteries. He'd thought that was an excellent idea, something that he might consider doing at some future time (yeah, right), and he'd be around if I wanted to hang out in Ten Forward. Was poker night still on? (Yes.) I walked on, acknowledging several other crew members, and ended up at Holodeck Four exactly at seventeen-thirty.

I walked in, not knowing what to expect. I was in what was clearly an outdoor hotel patio, completely devoid of guests, overlooking a smooth, sandy beach that seemed to go on for kilometres in either direction. There was a row of deck chairs below the café, at the beginning of the beach, brightly coloured with sunshades, and then maybe a kilometre or so of sand all the way down to a great expense of aqua-coloured sea. The waves came in steadily, glittering green water turning into white foam before it hit the sand and rolled back out. The sky was light and mackereled with clouds. It made me remember that Hopkins poem, how did it go, "…For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…."

"Sir, would you like a drink?" A waiter had appeared at my elbow, speaking standard with an accent I couldn't really place. I wondered if Jean-Luc had set this program in France.

"I'd recommend Sangría, Will," Jean-Luc said behind me. "They make an awfully good one, here, very fresh and citrussy."

"Okay," I said.

_"Dues Sangrías_, _per favor_," Jean-Luc said to the waiter, who bowed and left.

"Where are we?" I asked.

Jean-Luc took me by the arm, and led me to a small table at the far end of the patio, so that we were overlooking the beach. There was a light wind blowing, and the temperature was quite mild, warm enough to have one's shirt off but not hot. He was dressed in light-coloured trousers and had his shirt open, revealing his still-toned chest with its sparse white hair. He had on a sunhat, which he took off when we sat down.

"This," he said, "is a little town in Catalunya called Sitges, just outside of Barcelona," he said. "We would sometimes come here when I was a child, and I came here several times myself, when I was younger."

"It's beautiful," I said, and it was. There were sun-lightened rows of stucco buildings along to my right, perhaps summer homes, and low mountains to my left.

He smiled. "_Gràcies_," he said to the waiter, as he set down our drinks. "The wonders of the holodeck," he said. "On a day like this one, the beach would be filled with people, as would this café."

"I've never seen the Mediterranean," I said.

"You're joking," he responded.

I shrugged. "I'm from Alaska, remember?" I said. "The other side of the world."

"You've been to Europe, surely," he said.

"Sure," I answered. "Meetings in London, once. I took a week off and visited Paris and Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam?" he asked.

"Riker's Dutch," I said. "I was curious."

"Of course. Although I must say you hardly look Dutch."

"Well, it was a long time ago," I said. "when the Rikers came to America. Back when New York was New Amsterdam."

I sipped the drink. He was right, it was refreshing.

"You were able to rest?" he asked. He took my hand, traced my palm with his thumb.

"Yes," I said. "I slept a couple hours."

"Good," he said. "I've got a blanket and a couple of deck chairs down by the water, Will."

"I didn't bring a towel," I said.

"I've got towels. The water is lovely at this time of year," he said, standing. "Bring your drink."

"What time of year is that, Jean-Luc?" I asked.

"Mid-September," he said. "The crowds are gone, the weather's mild."

I followed him down the stairs and we walked across the sand. I stopped once and took off my shoes, marvelling at how the program managed to get the texture and warmth of the sand exactly right. He'd spread out a checked blanket, as he'd said, and had several towels as well as a picnic. The deck chairs had a cup holder and I set my drink in one.

"I'd talked about supper," he said to me, "but I thought a picnic on the beach would be more fun."

I grinned at the idea of Captain Picard having the words "more fun" come out of his mouth.

"What?" he said.

I looked at him. He was happy; it was as if he were ten years younger. He'd stripped out of his trousers and was wearing a suit that left nothing to the imagination. I remembered his comment about riding, and felt myself colouring, hating – not for the first time – that I was so fair-skinned.

He grinned. "Come on, Will," he said. "Get out of your clothes. We've got the whole beach to ourselves, courtesy of the holodeck."

I nodded, and stripped to my trunks. I followed him down the sand to the water and found the sea refreshing but not cold. He dove in, and swam out a bit, waiting for me to join him. I swam out to him, and then we drifted out to deeper water.

"Did you program sharks in the water, Jean-Luc?" I said.

"Yes, and giant groupers too," he said, and laughed. "Sorry, Will. There's not one dangerous fish in these waters."

"You used to come here to swim when you were little?" I asked. "Why here, and not the south of France?"

He said, "One of my mother's closest friends was Catalan. She had a summer villa here. That's where we used to stay."

"Is that the language you were speaking?" I asked.

"I'm pretty rusty now," he said. "I used to be fairly fluent when I was a child."

Suddenly he dunked me, and then he pulled me to him and kissed me, and I could feel him pressing against me.

"Have you ever made love on a beach before?" he asked me.

We'd moved into shallower water, and I brought him to me, and kissed him back. "No," I said. "Have you ever seen what the beach looks like in Valdez? The only making love done there is by sea lions."

He laughed, and we swam back to the beach, and returned to the blanket. The tide was ebbing, and there were even small shells along the tide line.  
He tossed me a towel.

"Here, let me help you with that," he said, and he began to dry me by rubbing the towel in circles across my back and then down to my trunks, which he quite efficiently removed. He applied a little bit of pressure so that I sank down to the blanket, and then he continued to dry me, circling the towel around me and then kissing me on the spots he'd already dried. I could feel him behind me slipping off his suit, and we made love, slowly, listening to the quiet lapping of the waves against the sand. When we finished, he lay beside me, and he wrapped me in his arms.

"Are you all right, _cheri_?" he asked.

"Yes," I said simply. "But I need to clean up."

"As do I," he said, sitting up. "Then we can have our supper."

We walked down the sand to the water, and he held my hand. The water was still the perfect temperature, one of the great accomplishments of the holodeck. In real life, it would have been late in the afternoon and the sun would be setting; the water would be cooler, but in the holodeck….The swim was refreshing, as was watching Jean-Luc swim. Somehow I doubted that I would look like that in my fifties.

"I did program the sunset, Will," he said as we walked out of the water. He shook himself, like a dog, and I laughed.

"Then we'd better eat before it gets dark," I said.

Back at the blanket we both put our trousers back on, without the wet suits, and dried off as best we could. He set out the picnic, which was quite Gallic, I guess – cold chicken, bread, cheese, some sort of chutney, it looked like, olives, and pears. Not an Alaskan picnic, that's for sure. He handed me a bottle of ale and I laughed in surprise.

"You aren't going to rat me out, are you?" he said seriously.

"Anyone would think you had a problem, Jean-Luc," I said, trying to calm down, "what with the Aldebaran whiskey behind your couch and Romulan ale."

"How did you know about the whiskey?" he asked, severely.

"I know everything that happens on my ship," I answered, "sir."

"Your ship, Mr Riker?" he said, opening a bottle and then handing me the church key.

"Please," I said. "Everyone knows the ship belongs to the first officer. I just loan it out to you."

"Indeed," he said, but he was smiling. "An annoying trait of first officers."

"One you undoubtedly shared when you were First," I said comfortably.

"Absolutely," he agreed.

We ate in companionable silence and the meal he'd prepared was surprisingly good. I was relieved to see that my earlier stomach problems had disappeared, and that, after the exercise of the afternoon, I actually had an appetite. As promised, the sun began to set in glorious colours, and I tried to picture him as a little boy playing on this beach in this shimmering light.

"You have something to tell me, I think," he said after a while. He took my hand.

"I don't know how to describe it," I said.

"Well, let me clean up," he answered, "while you think about what you want to say."

"Okay."

Efficiently he packed everything up, and then he put his shirt back on, although he left it unbuttoned. He handed me my shirt, and I put it on and buttoned it up halfway.

"It's difficult?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Why don't you let me hold you, then, and we can watch the sun set," he suggested. "You don't have to say anything at all if you don't want to."

"Okay," I agreed.

I lay down on the blanket, and he stretched out beside me, and pulled me to him, so that we were spooning, as if we'd been in bed. He kissed the back of my neck, and wrapped his arms around me, and we lay there quietly, watching the clouds and the play of the swirling colours in sky and sea.

I said softly, "Glory be to God for dappled things-/For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…."

And Jean-Luc answered, "He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him."

He kissed the top of my head. "I didn't know you had the soul of a poet, William," he murmured against my neck.

"You don't know everything about me, Jean-Luc," I said, but I was smiling.

"I wouldn't mind learning, if you don't mind sharing," he answered. "Your favourite poet, then? Hopkins?"

"I have a fondness for the Victorians," I said. "And the Pre-Raphaelites."

"And jazz," he said. "An interesting combination."

I thought about Sarah Vaughan and the Cole Porter songbook. "Maybe I just like a good lyric," I said, and he chuckled.

"There was an incident, today," I said, "actually, there were two."

"Yes?"

"Before you came in to see me this morning," I said. "After the meeting. I was – I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about my father."

"And what did I say?" he asked. He was stroking my hair, and his voice was very mild.

"You said my holodeck injuries were mirroring ones that I'd had as a child," I said. "That was the word you used. Mirroring."

"Yes." He continued to card his fingers through my hair.

"When I fell in the holodeck program," I said, "I broke my collarbone. And when I thought of it – just the words – it was as if I were having another night terror, only I was awake. I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was having a heart attack."

"You were having a panic attack, perhaps?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never felt that way before, I don't think. I felt trapped, like I had to get out, but there was no place to go."

"And that happened just before I came to see you?"

"Yes."

"You were fairly calm by then," he said.

"It went away pretty quickly."

"You didn't say anything."

I felt his grip tighten on my arm. "No," I said. "You're already too worried about me."

He sighed. "What exactly is _too worried_?" he asked.

I was quiet, watching the last bit of the sun sink below the sea. The stars were slowly appearing, and the lights had come on in the hotel behind us.

"There was another episode?" he asked. "A second panic attack?"

"No, at least I don't think that's what it was," I answered. "I don't know what it was."

"Can you tell me?"

"You'll relieve me of duty," I said softly.

"Is that something I should do? Will?"

I felt my eyes fill. "I'm where I want to be," I said. "I don't want to be anywhere else."

He kissed me softly on the back of my neck. "William," he said. He was using that voice again. "This is your home. Don't you think I know that? That you don't have anywhere else? Or that you don't think you do? I am not going to send you away," he said. "Not for any reason. If you need more time to heal, then there's more time. You do not have to be afraid."

Obviously I was ill, just as he'd said. I didn't want him to know I was crying, but he reached around and wiped my face anyway. I took a deep breath.

"After I woke up, I was feeling a little disoriented," I continued. "You know, the way you do when you're sleeping at an odd time, like when you've changed shifts."

"Yes," he said.

"And I didn't know what to do with my time," I said. "So I was reading about triggers. And I put some music on. And I was trying to figure out what I should do next, grade some papers or read a book. And I remember thinking about how I hate having nothing to do. How it makes me feel like I should at least be cleaning something, if nothing else…." I waited for him to comment on that, but he didn't. "And then it was like I was remembering something, except I wasn't. Wasn't remembering, I mean. It was like I was there. I was smelling silver polish, and something – something –"

"Breathe," he said. "That's it, just breathe. It's all right, you're right here now, I've got you."

My heart had started to race and I was trembling. "There was another smell," I said, and I had to fight myself not to get up and run. "It was – it was wrong, it was bad – there was cinnamon, and silver polish, and then –"

"_Guillaume_," he said, and it took me a minute before I realised he was speaking to me in French, "_mon cher_, _mon chou_, you are right here, with me, in Holodeck Four. You are not anywhere else. There are no smells. You are safe."

"What is wrong with me?" I said.

"You have post-traumatic stress disorder, I think," he said, "and Beverly thinks so too. We have talked to Deanna, and Deanna concurs with the symptoms. Something triggered this – we don't know what – but this is not an incurable illness, Will. It can be a chronic one, true, but it doesn't have to take over your life. It will be all right, I promise you. You trust me, yes?"

I nodded.

"Then trust me when I say you will be all right," he said simply.

"I don't want to be a burden to you, or anyone else," I said. "You have a ship to run."

He sighed. "William, there are times," he said. "If you were a burden, would I be here? Would I be holding you like this? Please."

I was quiet. Finally I said, "You're not mad at me?"

He didn't answer and for a moment I thought that he was. Then he said, as if I were some recalcitrant child, "William. Love. _Mon cœur_. I think you know me well enough to know that if I were angry with you, you would not have to ask."

I took a deep breath, and he kissed me on the top of my head.

"You are," he said, and I could tell he was smiling, "as you have always been, a royal pain in my arse. But I am not mad at you."

I could feel myself relaxing, and I snuggled into his arms. "I love you," I said.

"There," he said, hugging me tightly. "_Je t'aime aussi_."

"Despite my being a pain in your ass?" I asked.

"_Mais oui_, _Guillaume_," he whispered. "It's because you are a pain in my arse, not despite, that I love you. You keep me young," he said. "You make me laugh. You," he continued, "make me a better captain than I ever was. So don't ever talk to me about being a burden again. You understand?"

"Sir," I said, and he snorted in a very undignified way.

"Come, Will," he said. "Let's go back home."


	10. Interlude

Interlude

13 December 2337

As I write the date I can't help but marvel at using the old style Terran calendar again. I'm so used to keeping a log; not writing my thoughts at the end of the day has been too strange. Somehow Kyle knew and as a joke got me this antique journal with real paper and this beautiful gold pen. So it's fitting, then, that I should use the old style date; fitting too that it should be my first time celebrating St Lucia's day since I was a little girl. Of course, we didn't really celebrate it; there's no girl in this family to dress in white and weave a laurel to put in her hair. The idea of getting Billy to sit still long enough to put a laurel wreath in his curls is enough to make me want to laugh out loud. He'd probably eat it, the silly thing. Isn't laurel poisonous? (Note to self: make sure all winter celebrations do not include poisonous greenery.)

But we lit candles in the windows and we went to the celebration in the gym at the school. The amazing thing about living in a community where everyone is either Scandinavian or Russian is that there are so many reasons to celebrate at this time of year. Kyle, of course, didn't see the need to offer prayers to St Lucia, but I explained to him that the holiday is not really so much offering prayers to some dubious child-saint but the idea of keeping light in the darkest time of the year, the week before the winter solstice, when there's just the half-light that constitutes day both here and in Scandinavia. Anyway, Billy liked the lights, and he sat like a big boy on my lap for most of the ceremony. Afterwards, we met up with Vera and Greg and their three, Georgie and Pete and Rosie, and Billy and Rosie sort of sat on the floor and looked at each other and it was so cute. Then out of nowhere Billy got up and started running around in circles, and the next thing we knew it was utter chaos. Kyle grabbed Billy and told him no in a very stern voice, and Billy burst into tears and then it was obvious it was time to go home.

Despite an overtired toddler, it was a good day, and it made me wish that in a year or two there could be a sister for Billy, one who would wear a white dress and carry the candles. I always thought I'd have a daughter – I'd even thought about names once, asking Kyle what he thought about Julianna, because it's both Norwegian and Dutch. But that won't ever happen, and I suppose I shouldn't dwell on it. I'm lucky to have Billy, lucky to still be here to watch him grow.

22 December

I begged and begged – what an odd concept that is, me who has run a starship and who can make men quake in their boots – and Kyle finally relented and said we could have a few friends over to celebrate Christmas. Of course, we'll be going to Nan's for Russian Christmas; it's been years since I've been able to join the family for any celebration, let alone this one. But I wanted to invite just a few of the friends that I'd had in school, hoping that Kyle would meet a few of the guys, like Greg Kalugin and Marty Shugak and Tony Jesperssen. He's so shy, and this is such a close-knit community, and I never expected that he'd agree to come back here but it's so important, for Billy, that Kyle make some effort to know people here. He'll need them, when I'm gone.

27 December

So much has happened. I wanted to get it all down before I forget it, before the meds kick in and everything becomes so hazy. I never knew it would happen so fast. I thought I'd have a couple years. I thought I'd see Billy safely out of babyhood and off to kindergarten. I look at him, and I try not to think it, but it's so hard, knowing that he'll never remember me. He won't know that it was me who held him, and me who nursed him, and me who sang him to sleep at night. I've asked Kyle to be sure to tell him these things, so he'll know that even if he doesn't remember me, I was there, and I loved him.

We were getting ready for the party. The cabin looked great – despite Kyle saying that these things didn't mean much he'd done such a good job at decorating. The tree was perfect, and there was a candle in each window, and the whole cabin smelled of allspice and cinnamon and greenery. The best was that he'd found some old fashioned Christmas music – where he'd found it I have no idea – and so it was playing and the house smelled like sugar cookies and eggnog and Christmas.

Kyle had to go out, and Billy and I were in the kitchen. He's such a little helper, always wanting to do whatever I'm doing. I was polishing the last of the silver, and that old song "Silver Bells" was playing, and Billy was sitting on the counter "helping" me polish the last of the fancy spoons. I'd given him a cloth and a spoon – of course I hadn't given him any polish, not with the way he puts things in his mouth – and he was rubbing the spoon and swinging his legs against the counter in time to the music and even though he'd never heard this song before he was humming along with the singers.

And everything was so right. I could almost pretend I had a future, even if it wasn't going to be in Starfleet anymore.

And then I felt a little dizzy, and then the blood was gushing out of my nose, and I can remember thinking that I couldn't fall, because if I did, it would leave Billy by himself on the counter, and what would happen if he fell, with Kyle not back, and I could hear Billy screaming over and over and over. I must have managed to pick him up and place him on the floor, because that's where Kyle found us, Billy huddled next to me as I did my damnedest not to bleed out on our kitchen floor.

6 January

I've got the nurse writing this for me. All those years, at the Academy and then on one ship after another, I'd longed to have just one more Christmas at home with my nan and my cousins and all the aunties, Auntie Tasya and Auntie Raisa and everyone. And here I am in the hospital, instead of Nan's house. Kyle is here, but he left Billy with Auntie Tasya, who's promised me that she'll take care of him.

I won't feel sorry for myself. My people, the Norwegians and the Russians and the Aleut, are all strong, tough people who never gave up in the face of forces outside their control. I'm losing this battle but I don't have to act like a mainlander about it. I'm still Lt Commander Elizaveta Christianssen Riker, even if I do weigh half what I used to.

I remember Nan told me about her younger brother that she lost. What was his name again? I can't seem to remember now. Anyway, they'd been travelling along the river, close to break-up, and one minute her brother was there, standing beside  
her, and the next minute he was gone. There wasn't even a chance to try to save him, all she could do was walk home and let her mother know what had happened. In a way it was like that for me. One minute I'm on a routine mission, and the next minute I'm infected with a virus that changed my whole world.

I've asked Kyle to bring Billy the next time he comes, but Kyle is reluctant. He says that Billy's not sleeping, and that he's fractious, and that he'll tire me out. I want to tell him that of course Billy's not sleeping, we'd only just gotten him settled in his new bed, and he was used to me tucking him in, and reading him a book, and singing to him, and I'm not there. Kyle's promised that he's doing the same bedtime ritual, but it's normal that Billy won't understand. It would be better if Kyle would bring him, so he can see me here and know that this is where I am, but he's so stubborn, so sure he's right, that it's better for Billy not to see me like this, even if he won't remember anything about this at all, and he's right, I'm just too tired to fight it. But I'd just like to hold Billy one more time.

16 January 2338

Betty died this morning.

She asked me to save this.

What am I going to do?


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

If I'd been worried about spending another night in Jean-Luc's bed, and disrupting the captain's sleep, I needn't have been. He'd sent me to my quarters to get my things, and we'd spent a quiet couple of hours together. He'd put on some music – Fauré and Satie –and worked on some paperwork, the bane of shipboard life, and I'd found that novel that Deanna had recommended and started my way through it. There was a certain comfort in this, knowing that I didn't have to entertain him nor him me; but that we could work separately and yet still in some intangible way be a part of one another. He was right with that bit about my persona. How does he have the ability to be right all the time? It would piss me off, except that I can't help but just watch in admiration. I've always felt the need to perform for the person I'm with; to be amusing, to be happy, to be charming, to – I don't know, is woo the right word here? Even with Deanna, whom I've known since I was just a raw-boned youth, I often feel the need when I eat with her in Ten-Forward to make her laugh, instead of just allowing myself to be with her. Deanna's smart, so damned smart; yet she's never once called me on it. And yet Jean-Luc, with the precision of a skilled surgeon, just reaches in and cuts it right out. So we spent a few quiet hours together, and I'd gotten fairly well hooked into the book when Jean-Luc closed his padd down and stood up and stretched.

"Some of us," he said, "still have to work in the morning, Will. I'm going to bed."

"You're just jealous," I said, without looking up.

He smiled. "Are you joining me?"

I shut down my padd and stood up. "Yes," I said. "It's been a long day, even if some of us didn't work."

"Come on, then," he said, holding out his hand. He told the computer to shut off the lights and the music, and we walked into his bedroom.

I waited until he was finished getting ready; even the captain's head is not big enough for two men at the same time. He crawled into bed, and I joined him.

"Where are the ropes?" I asked.

For the first time in two days, he was the one who was confused.

"Ropes?" he repeated. "Do I know you well enough to be asked that question, William?"

I grinned. "In case I try to destroy you in the night again, Jean-Luc," I said. "Although the other idea has interesting possibilities, too."

He was silent, and, for a minute, I thought maybe I'd pushed him a little too far. How does one judge insubordination when one is sleeping with the captain?

He sighed.

"Did I mention that you are a pain in the arse?" he said.

"Sir," I answered.

His response was to kiss me deeply, which of course led to other more interesting possibilities.

"I don't believe you'll have any night terrors tonight," he said, after.

"I hope not," I murmured.

"So you'll just go to sleep, yes?" he said, leaning into me and closing his eyes.

"I am asleep," I said.

He has a captain's ability to sleep anywhere at a moment's notice, and was already asleep even as I answered him. I pulled him close and lay there, listening to him breathe. I was more than ready to believe him, that I wouldn't be waking, and finally I fell asleep as well.

He was singing in the head. I opened one eye. I really, really hate Gilbert and Sullivan. There should be a law against it in the Federation. Something about distorting the space-time continuum or something. Maybe I should ask Q to simply make it disappear the next time he shows up.

"I told you a long time ago you weren't getting enough," I said.

"You're a cheeky bastard," he replied.

"I hate Gilbert and Sullivan." I put the covers over my head.

"I thought," he said, walking out of the head, once again in pristine uniform, "you musicians enjoyed all types of music."

"Gilbert and Sullivan is not music," I said. "It was a plot against the civilised world perpetrated by the British Commonwealth."

"You had a good sleep," he said, smugly. He sat down on the bed and unravelled me from the covers.

"It's too early to be smug, Jean-Luc," I complained.

"I am never smug," he said, kissing me. "It's bad manners."

"Did you eat breakfast already?" I asked.

"Worried about Beverly?" He grinned.

"And you said I was cheeky."

"I'm the captain. While you can be – and you often are – cheeky to me, it is never the other way around." He stood up. "Breakfast is in five minutes," he said.

"I don't have to get up this early, do I?"

"You have an appointment with Deanna," he said. "At 0900 hours. So, yes. You have to get up. Four minutes, now, to breakfast."

He left the room, and I sighed. I hadn't really made an appointment with Deanna that early, had I? Reluctantly I got out of bed and showered and dressed in time to sit down at the table with Jean-Luc, who was already buttering his croissant.

"I have no idea what you eat for breakfast, Will," he said, "although I'm guessing it's not tea and a croissant."

I looked at him closely, but I couldn't tell whether he was making a comment on my struggles to maintain my weight or not. I sipped my coffee, hot, dark, and with cream, no sugar.

"Usually a poached egg and toast," I said. "And copious amounts of coffee."

"Are you telling me that your boisterous personality is primarily due to caffeine consumption?" He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.

"No, sir," I said. "It's a paradoxical reaction, sir. Caffeine calms me down."

He choked on his tea and I gave him a smug smile.

"Enjoy your eggs, William," he said, smiling. He stood up, cleared away his dishes, tugged down his tunic, and kissed me on the top of my head. "Let me know how it goes with Deanna," he said, resting one hand on my shoulder. "Try not to be too anxious."

"I'll be all right," I said.

"Plans for the day?"

"Light workout and a swim," I said. "I do have class work I need to finish. Geordi talked about having lunch in Ten Forward."

"If you're good, you can come sit on the bridge for an hour," he said.

"I'll be good," I promised. "I'll even be nice to Deanna."

"She didn't choose the appointment time, Will, I did," he said. "Thirteen hundred, if you feel like coming to the bridge."

He squeezed my shoulder lightly, and left.

"You're doing it again," I said, but of course, he was already gone.

"You look well," Deanna remarked, "for someone who is falling apart at the seams."

I'd just entered her office.

"Why, Will," she said, all pretend sweetness and light, 'you're blushing. Have you something to tell me?"

I sat down in her "client's" chair and glowered at her. "You are pure evil," I said. "You know that, don't you?"

"I did not make the appointment time," she protested.

"Yes, I know," I said.

"So –" She leaned in toward me, another move I'd seen her pull on her "clients." "Do tell."

"Which part?" I asked. "The falling apart at the seams, or the looking well?"

"How about the looking well first," she suggested.

"I am not a chocolate sundae," I said. "You make me feel like you're going to devour me."

She laughed. "You're too much," she said. "And you're stalling for time. Do you want something to drink?"

"Coffee," I said. "It calms me down."

She shook her head. "That sounds like an inside joke," she replied.

She brought me a mug of coffee, and sat back down. We waited for a few minutes.

"You already know, so why do I have to say anything?" I asked, finally.

"Despite what's going on, you seem happier," she said. "I'm pleased for both of you."

I was quiet. "Really?" I asked. "I wondered –"

"Will," she said, and it was Deanna speaking, not the ship's counsellor. "You and I are a good friends. I care very deeply for you, and you know this. So I am very happy for you. You've wanted this for some time."

"God, does everyone know that except me?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Jean-Luc said the very same thing," I answered.

"We just know you, Will, that's all. It's nothing to be paranoid about. There's certainly no ship's gossip. Not yet, anyway," and she grinned her evil grin again.

"I'm sure there will be soon enough," I said.

"Are you keeping it a secret?"

"No, I guess not." I hadn't thought that through. "I don't think so. Jean-Luc would have said something, surely. Just being discreet."

"He seems very happy, too," she said, and I found myself flushing yet again. "Of course, he is very worried about you, as we all are."

"Who constitutes all?" I asked. I did not want to talk about how happy Jean-Luc seemed.

"Myself. Beverly. The captain. Even Worf mentioned something to me, that you seemed not yourself."

I sighed. "Beverly said you agreed with her diagnosis."

"What diagnosis is that?" Deanna asked. "As far as I know, we haven't made an official diagnosis yet."

"Jean-Luc said you thought I have PTSD," I said.

"You have many of the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she agreed. "But there are other disorders that mimic those. We have to rule everything out."

"Oh," I said. "What other disorders? Like I'm going crazy disorders?"

"Will," she said firmly. "People do not 'go' crazy. And you certainly are not 'going' crazy."

"It feels as if I am," I said.

"In what way?"

"I don't want to be a client," I said. "I hate this."

She sighed. "Are you sure the coffee is calming you down?"

"Why does everyone think I'm not calm?"

"Will. Because you aren't. You are not exhibiting any signs of psychosis as far as I know," she said. "And in layman's terms, signs of psychotic behaviour are 'crazy.' So relax, okay? I'm not going to treat you like a client, I promise."

I looked down at the floor. She was right. All my muscles were tense. I was ready to bolt out the door. I put the mug on the table in front of me and looked up at her. "You're right," I admitted. "I'm sorry. I don't like talking about this stuff. It's awkward. I feel stupid."

"And that makes you just like every other human male I've ever talked to in here," she said. "It's difficult, Will, I know that. And you're not stupid. I wish you would stop saying that."

"I thought you weren't supposed to judge your clients," I said, but I was smiling.

"I thought you weren't a client," she retorted.

We both laughed, and I felt some of my anxiety lessen. She came over and sat next to me, and took my hand.

"Why don't you talk about what's bothering you the most right now?" she suggested. "We don't have to hash out the past eight weeks in one session."

I was going to protest that I wasn't doing "sessions," but then I figured I was just delaying the inevitable.

"A couple of things happened yesterday," I said. "After I met with Beverly."

"Yes?"

"We were discussing the night terrors I've been having," I explained. "Then I had the neurological scan. I went to the gym and did a light workout and had a swim. When I went back to my quarters, I was at a loss as to what to do next. So I looked up what Jean-Luc had mentioned, the triggers. And that got me thinking about what he'd said about my injuries."

"The injuries from the holodeck?"

"Yes. And then it was as if I was having a waking night terror. I started to have trouble breathing, and my chest hurt, like I was having a heart attack or something. And I felt as if I couldn't get away fast enough, yet there was really nowhere to go."

"And have you ever had this feeling before yesterday?"

"No," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember it if I did. It was very unpleasant. It only lasted a few minutes in real time, although it felt as if it went on forever."

"What you're describing is a panic attack," she said. "It's caused by anxiety, which, of course, you already have. The problem is often the panic attack itself produces more anxiety."

"That's certainly true," I agreed. "I keep waiting for it to happen again."

"Didn't Beverly give you something for your anxiety levels?"

"She gave me a hypo spray for the night terrors," I said.

"I'll tell her about the panic attack," Deanna said. "She needs to know." She paused, and then said, "You said there was something else?"

"Yes," I answered. "After the panic attack and Jean-Luc's visit, I took a nap. When I woke, I was thinking about how bored I was, and then I started remembering a time when I was helping my childhood babysitter polish some silver. I know that doesn't make any sense," I said. "My babysitter had a habit of using boredom as an excuse to clean. The impulse is still there," I explained. "The feeling that if I'm bored, I could at least be cleaning something."

"Okay," she said. "I certainly can understand that."

"But then I wasn't remembering anymore," I continued. "I was smelling silver polish, and cinnamon, and I was hearing music. Horns, and bells. It was overwhelming."

"And you were feeling?" she prompted.

"Terrified," I said. "Out of control. There was another smell – it was awful."

"Do you remember the other smell?"

I swallowed. "No," I said.

Deanna waited for a minute, as if she didn't believe me. Hell, I didn't believe me. I know damn well what that smell was. I just don't know why.

"You had a flashback," Deanna said. "In a way, it confirms the Post-Traumatic Stress diagnosis. They can be quite sudden and very stressful to experience. Is this the first one you've had?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Certainly it's the first one I've had in a very long time."

"And you don't want to tell me what the other smell was?" she asked.

"No," I said softly. "I can't."

"The treatment for PTSD, once we confirm the diagnosis," she said, "consists of medication, cognitive therapy, and several other types of therapy, including one developed on Betazed." She waited for me to say something, but my job as First is to listen and process information. I sat back a little, and she went on, "The point is that, there's no real cure. Medication can help alleviate some of the symptoms, such as anxiety and depression. You have to want to participate – otherwise, the other tools that we have to treat PTSD are meaningless."

"You're scolding me?" I said in disbelief.

"William Riker," she said, "don't look at me like that. I'm speaking to you as your friend right now."

"It's hard to know when you're wearing which hat," I said.

"Bullshit," she said.

"Ouch."

She said, "This will not be fun, Will. I've known about some of your childhood issues – how could I not? – and the captain has shared with me some of the things that he's found out. But you are the only one who knows what really happened. And you've deliberately forgotten more than you remember as a coping mechanism, which – don't say anything – is very typical for adult survivors of child abuse. The only way to deal with repetitive trauma is to actually deal with it, Will. Running away from it, forgetting it, pretending it never happened, or saying that it happened because it was your fault – not one of these strategies is going to help you anymore."

"Is the lecture over yet?" I asked.

"No," she said, and she moved back over to her "therapist's" chair. "These strategies are no longer working, Will. That's why you're having night terrors, and panic attacks, and flashbacks. It's why you're hurting yourself."

"I wasn't," I said, irritably, "hurting myself."

"I've read the medical reports," Deanna said in an infuriatingly calm voice. In her "therapist" voice.

"I thought you said you weren't going to treat me like a client," I countered. "You're making me feel like Broccoli."

"You're going to be very difficult," she said. "I told the captain you would be. You've got way too much vested in your old methods of coping to want to cooperate in any way."

"I've always been difficult," I said, before I realised what I was saying.

"I am not going to listen to Kyle Riker," she said angrily. "So you can please shut him up and tell him to go the hell away."

I looked away. My eyes were suddenly filling with tears again.

"Will," and it was Deanna who was speaking. "You are in so much pain. Don't you want it to stop?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Then you have to be willing to do the work," she said simply. "I know you, Will. You don't shy away from the hard jobs. You can do this. We'll be here to help you with it, I promise. But you have to commit to doing it. It's going to be hard. It's going to hurt. And I know it's frightening. But you're suffering from a real illness, Will. One that could truly harm you."

"Okay," I said.

She took a deep breath. "The captain said you're taking leave?"

"He gave me a week to ten days, but he also said I could take more," I answered.

"Do you have a plan for each day?"

"Going to the gym," I said. "Other than that, no. I'm just throwing things together."

"I'd like you to have some structure," she said. "A lack of structure is just as bad as you on a full workload. Let me speak with Beverly and the captain and we'll come up with something to offer you, okay?"

"Just as long as I get some choice in it," I said.

She looked surprised. "Of course," she said. "Oh – the appointment time. I get it." She looked as if she were trying not to laugh. "He can be very strong-minded."

"Bossy and overbearing is a better description," I muttered. "I was going to see you today."

"He's just so worried, Will," Deanna consoled. "He's not showing it to you. But he is showing it to us." She touched my hand. "Plans for today?"

"The gym," I said. "Light workout and a swim. Lunch with Geordi in Ten Forward. The captain said I could spend an hour on the bridge at thirteen hundred. Then I have work for my classes to do, lessons to prepare and papers to grade."

"Good," she said. "I don't know why you can't continue to teach your classes, if you want to. Let me know if you do, okay?"

"It would be easier if I did," I said. "Data could take them over, but he's stretched thin at the moment, covering for me on the bridge."

"Then we'll keep those in your light schedule," she promised. "I've got a real client about to show up," she said, and she was laughing. "You go do your workout."

I stood up, and she put her hand on my arm.

"Will," she said, "if you need me, you know how to get me."

I looked down at her and saw that she was serious. To offer that – what exactly were they all so afraid of, I wondered, Jean-Luc and Beverly and Deanna? I'd been barred from the holodeck, and was pretty much out of harm's way. There's no way Jean-Luc would let me back on the bridge if we were actually expecting anything.

"I'll be fine," I said reassuringly. "I promise you."

She didn't look convinced, which, in a way, scared me more than the panic attack did. Then she covered her concern and smiled at me.

"Have a good workout," she said, and I left her office and headed to the gym.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

William returned home from the hospital to find Mr and Mrs Shugak firmly in place, as if they had never left. Even though Mr Shugak explained to William that it was perfectly all right to have Bet with him, because his father was going to be on a far-away mission for a very long time, William insisted that Bet live with Rosie. Only the Shugaks knew what had happened to William; the rest of the village knew that Kyle Riker had had some sort of breakdown and the boy had been hurt. Vera Kalugin told the Shugaks that Bet could remain with them forever, if that's what William wanted, and so Bet's place was settled and life seemed to return to normal.

William went back to school. He spent the mornings with Miss Anna and his friends, sometimes in the classroom and sometimes in the school library, working on his projects. The long afternoons were spent with Mr Demetrioff and Mr Levesque. Mr Demetrioff was not only a physics, chemistry, and space sciences teacher, he was also a pilot; arrangements were made for William to study flying on the weekends. At the end of the long afternoons, William would be walked to the gym to meet Henry and either Mr or Mrs Shugak. He would have supper there; then he would spend thirty minutes on warm-ups and forty minutes working through his tai chi program. At six the other children would show up for Henry's judo program. William would stay for that, and Mr or Mrs Shugak would take him home.

Mr Shugak shuttled back and forth between his job and his own house, but Mrs Shugak lived with William. William's old bed had been thrown out and his room completely redecorated while he was in the hospital; there were posters from Starfleet and the Academy, models of starships, and some really good photos of Bet that Rosie's brother Pete had taken. There were bookshelves for William's books and a wooden desk that Mr Shugak had built himself. Mrs Shugak continued with William's cooking lessons, and their Thursday afternoons at the market. Sometimes Dmitri would come over and spend the night, and he and William would play games all night long.

This seemed to work for a while. But while many people think that most children are resilient in the face of trauma and tragedy, a child's resilience is dependent on a variety of different factors. Did the child have a strong attachment to the primary parent or caregiver? What personality type was the child? Were their genetic factors that contributed toward a tendency for depression, or anxiety, or any of the other psychological or psychiatric disturbances that could occur?

William had had two solid years of a strong attachment to his mother, but that attachment had been severed with his mother's illness and death. The attachment to his father was insecure at best, and as William grew older, the relationship became unstable and the attachment was finally severed, leaving William without an attachment at all. He had a secondary attachment to Mrs Shugak, but that was insecure as well, because he was now aware that Mrs Shugak could be removed from his life if his father so wished. The abuse that William suffered compounded his incipient reactive attachment disorder; William learned that adults could not be trusted; that caregivers came and went, without his control or say in the matter; and that love and pain were entwined.

Mrs Shugak was no scholar. She was not a stupid woman by any means; but her gifts were instinct and emotion, rather than intellect. She had raised five children, all successfully; she had eleven grandchildren; even William's one-time nemesis Dmitri was a well-brought up and loved child. When William woke screaming in the night, and couldn't be roused or consoled; when William seemed to fade, sometimes, just drifting off into another place; and when William's rage would manifest itself in towering temper tantrums, Tasya Shugak knew she needed to find someone who could navigate William through the damage that had been done. She had no idea where to find this person; their village, outside the park, was very small; Valdez too was very small. She talked to Gareth Davies at the school, and he promised to find a school psychologist who specialised in the kind of trauma that William had suffered.

It was Henry, however, who contacted Tasya Shugak about helping William. Henry, who had been known for almost a decade as the village fix-it man and the school janitor (and unofficial playground monitor and martial arts instructor), was actually Master Chief Henry Ivanov, a man who had retired from Starfleet after thirty years of service and who had settled in the village, as many mainlanders do, for the peace and quiet it offered him. Henry was no stranger to trauma. Thirty years in the 'Fleet encompassed all manner of wars and massacres and bizarre situations, along with all the wonder and discovery and friendships.

It was a Tuesday, and William was unfocused. He seemed to be only half-aware of his surroundings, drifting in and out of attention. Henry had noticed it during warm-ups, but it became more pronounced during tai chi. Tai chi was developed as a solution to this problem, but it wasn't helping William.

Finally, Henry said, "Will, are you tired?"

William looked down at the floor. "Yes," he said finally.

Henry walked over to one of the benches alongside the wall, and motioned for William to follow him. William sat down on the bench, but not next to Henry. Since the accident, William stayed his distance from other people, even people he'd previously been friendly towards.

"Did you not have a good sleep last night?" Henry asked.

William said, "I never sleep good."

"How come?" Henry asked. He didn't look at the child, keeping his focus on the floor.

William shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "I wake up in the middle of the night and I don't know where I am."

"That sounds scary," Henry said.

"I guess."

"Every night?" Henry asked.

"Yeah."

"Must be hard on Auntie Tasya," Henry said.

William looked away. "She doesn't know what to do," he said. "She talked to Mr Davies and I have to go see a doctor in Valdez."

"That sounds kind of scary too," Henry said.

William nodded. "I'm tired of doctors," he said. "I'm tired of everything."

Henry didn't say anything. They sat for a few minutes. Then he said, "Why don't you be my helper tonight, instead of working out?"

William looked up. His eyes were teary, but Henry saw interest in them too.

"The thing is," Henry continued, "you know Jake and Lucy are so little that they need extra help, but then I spend all my time with them, and so the bigger kids, like you and Matt and Rosie and Dmitri, you guys don't get the attention you need."

William said, "I could help with Jake and Lucy."

"I know," Henry agreed. "You've already learned all the basic stuff. If you could be my helper tonight, I can really work with the older kids. Would you like that?"

"It's okay?" William asked, unsure.

"Of course it is," Henry said, smiling. "It's my class, isn't it?"

William smiled back. "I'd like that," he said.

William was good with the little children, patient, and kind. Henry saw that in working with the littler children, William forgot about himself, and simply concentrated on the task at hand. And as he had hoped, he was able to work with the older children, and William got a much needed break.

When Mrs Shugak came to pick William up, Henry asked if he could speak to her while William was in school. He told her what William had said about waking up in the night; he told her that William had said he was tired of everything. He was very concerned, but he didn't want anyone to panic. He thought taking William to the doctor in Valdez was a good idea.

Tasya Shugak agreed to meet Henry right after dropping William off at school. They walked to Murphy's, which was a combination café and tavern, and really the only place where you could get a cup of coffee and a doughnut for breakfast, and a really good moose burger for lunch.

Charlie Isaksen came around from the bar and served them coffee and fresh fried doughnuts; his daughter, Marie, who was the waitress, wouldn't show up for another hour to begin prepping for lunch.

"Will says he hasn't been sleeping," Henry said, sipping his coffee.

"He wakes up screaming almost every night," Auntie Tasya agreed. "When he's like that, I can't wake him. He's still asleep, but he's hysterical."

"It's good you're taking him to the doctor," Henry confirmed. "Sounds like night terrors. I never heard of an older kid having them, though. My daughter had them when she was a baby, around eighteen months' old or so."

Auntie Tasya had never known that Henry had a daughter, but she was too polite to say anything. "How did they stop?" she wondered. "Or how did you help her?"

"It sounds silly," Henry said, "but the best thing that worked was putting her in a tepid bath. She'd wake up naturally then. She loved baths, and she'd go right back to sleep. She outgrew them, of course. It lasted a month or two but for my poor wife, it seemed to last forever."

Auntie Tasya nodded. It did, indeed, seem to last forever. "I can't imagine getting William in the bathtub," she said. "He fights me if I try to hold him."

"Does he like music?" Henry wondered.

"You know," Auntie Tasya said, "Elizaveta used to tell me that he would be a musician when he grew up. She said he could sing any song, and his pitch was true. I'd forgotten all about that."

"You could play some music," Henry suggested, "and see if it will wake him up. Do you have a piano there, at his home?"

"Elizaveta's old piano is still there," Auntie Tasya said. "It's one thing Kyle didn't throw out."

"Maybe I'll come over on Sunday and see how out of tune it is," Henry said. "When do you go to Valdez?"

"Next week," Auntie Tasya replied. "Marty will drive us."

"Good," Henry said. "You should tell the doctor the boy said he was tired of everything."

"Yes," Auntie Tasya agreed. "I will be sure to tell the doctor that."

Henry met William at recess in the gym. (It was much too cold for anyone to be outside.)

"Hi, Henry," William said. It had taken him a while to call Henry by just his first name, and he still tended to stumble over it. Most elders in the village were Uncle and Auntie; even though the Shugaks were village elders, Kyle Riker had always insisted that William call them Mr and Mrs Shugak.

"Hey, Will," Henry said. "Not playing today?"

William shook his head. Most of the older kids were playing hockey across the gym floor.

"I don't feel like it," he said.

"I heard you're pretty good at street hockey, though," Henry offered.

William didn't even smile. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "I like baseball better."

"I heard you're really good at that," Henry agreed. "Look at that Rosie; she's the best player out there."

"She was the best hitter on our team," William said, watching Rosie.

"You were a good hitter too," Henry said. "I saw you beat that other team for the championship. Now that was a good baseball game."

"Yeah," William said. "I probably won't play this year."

Henry didn't say anything. If William wanted a rise out of him, he would have to work harder than that. Finally, Henry said, "Listen, thanks for helping me out with the little kids. You did a good job."

William looked at Henry. "It helped you, didn't it?" he asked. "You worked hard with the other kids. Matt was really happy."

"Yeah, I was that pleased," Henry said. "Maybe you could do it again sometime."

"Okay." William seemed a little calmer.

"You know," Henry began, "I was speaking to your Auntie Tasya. She said she's got a piano needs tuning."

William was surprised. "My mother's piano?" he asked.

"Oh, is that who the piano belongs to?" Henry said. "You know, I heard your mom could play a pretty mean keyboard."

William shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I never heard that."

"I hear you can sing," Henry continued.

"Who told you that?" William asked.

"I don't know," Henry said. "Maybe it was Miss Anna."

"Oh."

"Anyhow, I'm coming over to tune the piano on Sunday," Henry said. "Maybe check it out a bit, play a few songs."

"Is she gonna sell it?" William asked. He had no idea why suddenly Mrs Shugak would want the piano tuned. He'd never heard it played.

"I think, Will," Henry said, "that the piano is yours, so I doubt if Auntie Tasya could sell it without you telling her to."

"The piano's mine?" William repeated.

Henry nodded. "Your mother left it for you," he said. "So what do you say? I play a pretty mean keyboard myself."

"Okay," William said. Then he said, "Do you play anything else?"

Henry grinned. "Boy, I am a one-man band," he said. "I can play the cornet, and the trombone, and the clarinet as well. I could rock this whole village."

"Maybe I could learn to play something," William said.

"We'll try on Sunday, okay?" Henry wanted to put his arm around William and give him a hug, but he refrained. William still seemed so skittish. "I'll bring some of my instruments."

"Sure," William said.

Henry came on Sunday, and stayed for lunch. He brought his tuning kit for the piano, and both the Shugaks, and Dmitri, and William watched him work on the instrument. He'd also brought his clarinet and his trombone, and he let both boys play with the mouthpieces. Dmitri didn't do much, but William could blow through the trombone mouthpiece. Then Henry sat down at the piano and played a few pieces. William seemed to enjoy it, and Henry taught him the scale. He left thinking that even if William didn't play baseball this year, he might have been attracted enough to the piano and/or the trombone to want to play an instrument instead. Henry felt that with William helping him as well as learning judo, and with the music, maybe they could get William over his more immediate troubles.

William woke on Monday feeling tired and out of sorts. He had a paper due for Miss Anna that he had almost finished. He had worked on some problems for Mr Levesque, and he had a lab with Mr Demetrioff. He'd wakened in the night, crying and tearing up his bed, and Mrs Shugak had put on some music, but it hadn't really seemed to help too much.

He got out of bed and went downstairs. Mrs Shugak was already up, and she'd placed an egg and bacon sandwich in front of him, along with a glass of orange juice. William sat down, and moved his food around.

"What's the matter, William?" Mrs Shugak asked.

"I hate orange juice," William said.

"Have four sips," Mrs Shugak answered.

"Two," said William. He drank it and made a face.

"Eat your breakfast." Mrs Shugak sat down with her coffee and watched William as she stirred the milk and sugar in.

"I'm not hungry," William said.

"Are you sick?" she asked. She'd never known a boy who wasn't hungry.

"No," William said. "I'll eat."

He took a few bites of the sandwich, and one more sip of the hated orange juice. "I'm ready," he said. "I'll get my stuff."

"Mr S will take you today," Mrs Shugak said. "Marty!"

Mr Shugak appeared from the mudroom and smiled at William. "Go get your stuff, then," he said kindly. "Cold as troll's breath out there." Mr Shugak's grandmother had been born in Norway. He frequently told stories about trolls and frost giants.

William rolled his eyes and went to get his backpack. Before he would have hugged Mrs Shugak and she would have kissed him on the top of his head; now he just said goodbye. He put his down parka on and his hat and mitts and boots and then joined Mr Shugak in the aircar.

Mr Shugak was a nice man, but William was tired of hearing about trolls. He tuned Mr Shugak out, and tried to think instead what it might be like if he were made out of stone. He wondered if people who were turned to stone could think or feel or even know that they'd been people once.

Mr Shugak dropped him off at the school, but he didn't wait to see if William went in. He never did. As Mrs Shugak had trusted William to go to Rosie's when he'd said he was going, it never occurred to Mr Shugak that William would get out of the aircar but then not go into the school.

William wandered onto the playground, and then he left his backpack by the frozen swings. He walked out of the playground, feeling his eyelashes turn to ice crystals. He wondered if he sat down in the snow somewhere, if he'd just turn to ice. He thought it was probably not possible for people who'd become ice or stone to realise that that's what they were. He thought they probably just went to sleep, and then their bodies froze, and they went wherever things went when they just stopped being. Rosie said that people went to Heaven, where they were with Jesus, and that his mother was probably in Heaven waiting for him to be with her again. William thought that might be okay. He'd forgotten what she looked like, but presumably she would recognise him.

He found a quiet place and sat down, and waited to be turned into stone.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

As I was walking to the gym, I remembered feeling this way before, tired and out of sorts, in a way drifting in and out of focus. I must have walked past crewmembers; they must have acknowledged me, their XO, but I don't remember seeing anyone. I felt lightheaded and a little queasy, as if maybe I'd drunk too many cups of coffee, even though I'd only had two.

The gym was mostly empty. Alpha shift was in full force; beta shift was about to start; those on gamma were already in bed. I changed and started my routine, but there was little joy in it. It wasn't as if I were having a panic attack, or even what Deanna had said was a flashback. I just couldn't seem to stay in the present, but I wasn't remembering the past, either. I was just sort of floating. It's very hard to explain. Except that I knew that I'd felt this way before, because in a bizarre way it felt so familiar, like when you put on your favourite shirt, as old and crappy as that shirt may be. It felt comfortable.

I ended my workout early, because when you're on the equipment you need to pay attention, and clearly I was not capable of paying attention. I swam for a bit, not really doing laps, just sort of idly swimming. The outing at Jean-Luc's beach had been enjoyable, the water cool and refreshing without being cold. I'd only been in the Pacific once without a wetsuit, back at the Academy when we'd all decided to go to the beach for a swim; it was not a "fun" experience. I may be from Alaska, but I do not particularly enjoy hypothermia. I didn't really want to think about the captain – Jean-Luc – because I felt already like everything I was experiencing wasn't truly happening. The fact that Jean-Luc had taken me to somewhere important to him, had shown me someplace that he'd been as a little boy, meant that he was taking what I felt for him seriously. He didn't often let people in, even those of us who were presumably close to him, yet he was letting me in now, when I was not sure that I could handle it. Sure, I'd been attracted to him, the way it seems I'm attracted to almost anything that walks (another thing I don't want to think about), and I'd wanted him to fuck me, had fantasised about it, and then I'd decided I was in love with him, but – wasn't this the same as it had been with Deanna, all those years ago? I can't be his First forever, I know that; I keep telling myself that I'll take the right assignment when it comes, but I don't have a very good track record for sticking around when someone says that they love me back. Do I really want to be the one that hurts him, if he cares about me the way he's been showing he does?

Maybe none of this was real anyway, just more of the same waking dreams I'd been having. I got out of the pool, and showered, and decided it was time to see if Geordi still was meeting me for lunch. We could be having a warp core meltdown, for all I would know anymore. I didn't want to think about that, either.

I walked into Ten Forward and for some odd reason, was glad to see that Guinan was not on shift. Geordi had said he'd meet me, so I took my usual table by the window, and Mac came over to take my order. I'd had more than I usually eat for breakfast, so I wasn't really hungry, but I ordered some iced mint tea, something that Deanna had introduced me to a long time ago.

Geordi showed up about five minutes later, grinning and sort of chuckling to himself, the way he does when he's got a good story to tell. He was holding a bandage around his hand, but he didn't seem too concerned about it. He sat down and when Mac came over he ordered a cup of coffee.

"What's so funny?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "You won't believe it, Will," he said. "Murphy's law, of course."

"It has to do with Barclay, doesn't it?" I said. At least I'd remembered to call him by his real name this time. Poor guy, he was nice enough, and brilliant in the same way Wesley was, but shit. I still couldn't get over that damned program of his. I tried to avoid him; I made Deanna do his performance evals, because I honestly didn't think I could be fair. Who would have thought that I'd be the kind of guy who would hold a grudge over stupid stuff?

"It sure does," Geordi agreed.

"How did you manage to get hurt?" I asked.

"Oh, this is nothing," Geordi said. "The usual tool malfunction, doesn't have anything at all to do with Reg."

"Was anyone else hurt?" I asked.

Geordi said, "I thought you were off-duty?"

I tried to relax. "On leave or not, I'm still responsible, Geordi, you know that," I said, but I said it lightly. "You filed a report?"

"Yes, Will, I filed an accident report," Geordi grumbled. "And I went to sickbay. Every t is crossed, every i dotted."

"Sorry," I said. "Force of habit, I guess."

Mac came back with our drinks, and Geordi ordered soup and a sandwich.

"Aren't you eating, Commander?" Mac questioned. "We've got a quiche, if you'd like something light."

"What's the soup?" I asked.

"We've got two," Mac said. "A simple tomato bisque and for some reason, Lt Commander Worf requested we do a borscht this week."

"I'm having the tomato, Will," Geordi said.

"You serve it with sour cream, right?" I asked. Mrs Shugak had made a regular supper of black bread and borsht when I was growing up.

"Yes, Commander," Mac said. "We do it correctly. Mr Worf was quite concerned that we do so."

"I'll have that, then," I said. I still wasn't particularly hungry, but soup is something you can move around and it looks like you're eating it. Besides, while it wouldn't be Mrs S's, it might just be good. I bet Worf's mother did make a good borscht.

Mac left, and Geordi said, "Beets, Will? Really?" He shook his head.

"It's better than black-eyed peas," I said, "if you want to be ethnic about it."

He shook his head. "You're not even Russian. I mean, borscht probably tastes good to a Klingon."

"I like Klingon food," I said, laughing.

"The stuff that's alive or the stuff that isn't?" Geordi countered.

I laughed. Geordi has no idea how important he is among our senior staff. He's so quiet and he's so unaware, but he's easy-going and kind and if you're down, Geordi's the person you want to be with.

Geordi told me the story about Barclay's latest foolishness – this time he'd decided he was having premonitions – and when our food came, I discovered that Worf's mother's recipe for borsht was almost as good as Mrs Shugak's. Of course, I'm sure Worf's mother used real food, and maybe that was all the difference. Mrs Shugak, as with many people in our village, used the small but prolific summer growing season for vegetables, and her beets were always from her garden.

I wasn't having any trouble following Geordi's conversation; he was talking about the latest project he and Data were working on. It sounded vaguely interesting, but over my head. I seemed to have lost that unreal feeling I'd had in the gym, and was grateful. I knew I should stop by sickbay and talk to Dr Crusher. Deanna and Jean-Luc had both said they were going to fill Beverly in on my latest symptoms, but maybe I should talk to her myself. I felt like I was all over the place; Deanna was right; I was very anxious and maybe Dr Crusher could help me with that.

Geordi was demonstrating part of what he and Data were working on, and he knocked his bandaged hand against the table.

"Shit," he said. "That hurt."

He held his hand up to look at it, and I felt it hit me in the pit of my stomach. There was so much blood. I could smell it, that raw, coppery smell, I could taste it, there was cinnamon, and silver polish, and oh my God the blood, and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe and my chest hurt, and I was up and overturning the chair.

I thought I heard Geordi say my name, but I couldn't turn around, I couldn't smell or see anything but all the blood, and then I was heading back to my quarters, sort of on auto-pilot, just as one place where I could get away and try to deal with the smells and the unreality of everything.

In my quarters I went into the head, but even as I tried to wash my face the blood kept coming back, I kept smelling it and tasting it and hearing it. Someone was crying and there was music playing and I couldn't breathe, and it has to stop.

I felt calmer then. It has to stop. I can make it stop. I can make everything stop.

There's so much blood.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

William found himself drifting in a world that was white. It was a strange world, fuzzy and indistinct. He thought he saw Bet, and felt her slobbery tongue on his arm. Then he thought he heard music, far away. He felt like crying, but his body was already turning, it seemed, into stone. He wanted his father. But he had been bad, and they had sent his father away. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

When Matt Jesperssen came with a pass to the gym where Henry was having his mug of coffee, asking for Miss Anna if William were there, Henry knew immediately that the boy was in trouble. He put his coffee down, and sent Matt back to Miss Anna with the answer that he hadn't seen William all morning. Then he walked quickly to the front office to tell Mrs Fraser, the principal, that he would lead the search party for William.

Linnea Fraser called Marty Shugak, and discovered that William had been dropped off in front of the school. She called Max Demetrioff and Paul Levesque, to see if William had been to the high school; she called Charlie Isaksen and Tasya Shugak; Vera Kalugin, Martha Jesperssen, and finally, the Federation office in Anchorage.

Henry gathered the search party of himself and John Sutherland, one of the fifth grade teachers, and Frederik Holm, the PE coach. They found William's backpack almost immediately, where he had dropped it by the swings.

Henry said to Mrs Fraser when he brought it in, "He can't have gone far."

"Marty and Tasya are on their way," Linnea Fraser said. "I've called the state troopers in Valdez. I have to stay here. The Federation is going to try to patch me through to Kyle Riker."

Wisely, Henry said nothing. He did not think Linnea Fraser needed to know his thoughts on the boy's father.

When the Shugaks arrived with Charlie Isaksen and Tom Jesperssen in tow, Henry organized the search party. Marty Shugak would stay with him; Charlie and Tom, Max and Paul, and John and Rick Holm would all set out on foot.

No one said anything about the time. It had been eight-thirty when William was dropped off. It was nine-forty-five now.

William was found at ten-seventeen. He had made himself a little snow cave, up against the trunk of a tree. He was barely alive. Having alerted the state troopers, a medivac was waiting, and William was airlifted to the hospital in Valdez. Henry and the Shugaks followed; Linnea Fraser had made contact with Kyle Riker, who would be on a ship back to Earth as soon as he could find one.

Tasya Shugak had heard stories of children who had fallen in icy water and yet had survived. She hoped that William's snow cave had kept him warm enough to do the same.


	15. Interlude Two

Interlude: Two

Picard was in his ready room, reading the latest information on the survey from the astrophysics department, when he heard Guinan's voice over his comm badge.

"Picard," she said.

"Here," he responded.

"There's been an incident with Commander Riker. I have Geordi here. He was involved."

"Mr LaForge?" Picard said.

"Sir," came LaForge's voice. "We were eating lunch. I don't know what happened, sir. He seemed okay and then he just seemed to – I don't know, it was like he saw a ghost or something. I know how stupid that sounds – "

Picard said, with a voice that indicated patience but belied the panic that was rising in his chest, "Just tell me the physical facts, Mr LaForge. Where is Commander Riker?"

"He ran out of Ten Forward, sir," LaForge answered. He sounded confused. "He just took off. I don't know where he went."

"Picard," Guinan said. "You need to find him. You need to find him now."

"Acknowledged," Picard said. He stood up and tugged his tunic. "Computer, where is Commander Riker?"

"Commander Riker is in his quarters."

The image of Jack Crusher's body flickered briefly before Picard's eyes, but he forced those thoughts away. He said, "Picard to Crusher," and waited for her response.

"Crusher here, Captain."

"I need you and a medical team to Commander Riker's quarters," he said, knowing that there was no justification for this at all except the urgency in Guinan's voice. "Meet me there."

"Acknowledged," Crusher said.

Moving quickly but quietly towards the turbo lift, Picard tried to organise his thoughts. There was no point to giving in to the fear that he'd been refusing to acknowledge since Will had told him about the panic attack and the flashback; there was no point, he told himself savagely, but the barely-contained lid on the regrets that were Jack Crusher were threatening to tumble forth. Eight weeks, he thought angrily, eight bloody weeks it had taken him to call Will on his injuries, to get Will in to see Dr Crusher, to finally pay attention to what was happening with Will. His Will.

"Deck eight," he said to the turbo lift.

He would not give in to the recriminations. Not now. There was no time, and yet his hands were trembling at his own stupidity. What was the matter with him that he couldn't see that Will was teetering on the edge? He'd known damn well how close he was, and what was the matter with Deanna, and Beverly – no, he wouldn't lay blame, not yet. But if there were blame to be laid – if he'd lost Will – it would be squarely at his own bloody stupid feet.

"Picard to Troi," he said.

"I'm on my way," Troi responded. She sounded as agitated as he felt.

"Did he contact you?" Picard tried to keep the hope from his voice.

"No," Troi said succinctly. "Dr Crusher did."

"Picard out," he said.

How, he thought, could he have been so slow, so bloody distracted – and there was the truth of it. When he'd confronted William with the truth, that he'd known how Will felt, when he'd offered – out of compassion? – a response to Will's feelings, he hadn't expected his own reaction to change so quickly, to have gone from trying to help Will to finding that there were real feelings of his own for Will, unacknowledged but just waiting to be acted upon. Will's response had been so genuine, so sweet, that in a way he'd been overwhelmed, when he'd been worried that he would be the one to overwhelm Will. And so he hadn't fucking bloody seen it, he thought viciously, but it was right there, staring him in the face. Will had said it himself. Mirroring my injuries from childhood. That's what had twigged his own radar to begin with, the similarities between the holodeck injuries and the childhood medical records.

The turbo lift opened, surely the world's longest ride, and he strode towards Will's quarters, hoping that his own anxiety and anger wasn't spilling out. He overrode Will's door and was met with the quiet and darkened dayroom of Will's quarters.

"William?" he called, and then, "Mr Riker!", hoping that Will would respond immediately to the familiar authority of the captain's voice.

He called out, "Lights!" and moved into Will's bedroom.

His first thought was that Will was already gone, that he'd lost him. He immediately quashed that thought, along with the eruption of the litany of all the other losses in his life. This, he told himself sternly, was not about him, and he shoved all feelings aside to be dealt with at a later time.

Will was on the floor in the head. The mirror over the sink was broken, and there was blood, bright red and pooling, around and underneath Will's body. Picard closed his eyes, briefly, forcing back the surprising rise of tears, and took a deep breath. He sank down to one knee and felt for Will's carotid artery, not daring to breathe a thought of a prayer for a pulse, and yet there was one, faintly, but there. He couldn't think of the medical description but at least Will was still alive. He'd broken the mirror – how, Picard didn't know, since the glass was supposed to be unbreakable – and it appeared that he used a sherd to lacerate both arms and then made an attempt at his neck.

"Picard to Crusher," he said, and he was surprised that his voice sounded so normal.

"Two minutes ETA," Crusher responded.

"He's bleeding out, Beverly," Picard said. "What do I do?"

"Use a towel, apply pressure. We're coming down the corridor."

"Picard out," he said.

He stood up and grabbed a bath towel, realised that it was too unwieldy, and then simply stripped off his own tunic and began to wrap it tightly around Will's arms. He heard the door to Will's quarters open, and he immediately backed up, hoping that he wouldn't be in the way of the med team and the gurney.

He watched silently, as Beverly and her team worked efficiently to tourniquet the wounds and load Will onto the gurney. He heard the door open again and glanced at Deanna, white-faced, in the doorway of Will's bedroom.

"He's fading, Beverly," Deanna said.

"His pulse is thready but it's there," Beverly answered.

The two ensigns were moving the gurney out of the head and through the bedroom, and Picard followed behind Beverly, Deanna at his side.

"Use your bond," he said. "Tell him to stay with us."

"He doesn't want to," Deanna said numbly. "He's tired – "

Picard said, "I know. He's tired of everything." He didn't bother to keep up with Beverly; she and her team knew what they were doing; he'd only be in the way. He would walk with Deanna; he would help her maintain contact. "It's what he said," Picard explained, turning back and looking at what seemed to be all of Will's blood on the tiled floor.

"When?" Deanna asked.

"When he was a child," Picard answered simply. "He told a family friend that he was tired of everything. He was seven. And then," Picard said, and the fury at himself was barely contained in his voice, "he walked out into the snow to freeze to death. He later said that he'd just wanted to be turned into stone."

"Jean-Luc," Deanna began, reaching out to place her hand on his arm.

"No," Picard said bitterly. "Don't say it. We all bear this responsibility, but neither one of us has time to think about that now. Just try to let him know we're here."

"I am," she said quietly.

In sickbay, Picard paced as he watched the team work on Will. There'd been other times, with Will, that he'd been in this kind of jeopardy; the illness that had paralysed him and nearly taken his life. Usually Picard avoided sickbay – what could he do, except be in his CMO's way – but this time was different. He didn't glance at Troi, although he knew she was forcing herself to remain still, concentrating on her bond. He didn't realise she was behind him until she spoke.

"Go in there," she said, and he wheeled around in surprise.

"I'll just be in the way," he said.

"You won't," Deanna said firmly. "He needs you. Go in there and be with him."

Picard said, bitterly, "It's you he needs."

Deanna didn't even blink. "No," she said. "If you love him, Jean-Luc, go in there now."

Picard stopped pacing and stood perfectly still. He stared at Deanna, but she didn't back down.

"Now," she repeated. "He needs you now."

Picard felt himself nodding, as if his head were no longer part of the rest of him. He turned away from Troi and opened the door to the unit.

"Good," Beverly said, glancing up at him. "Get the captain a chair, Alyssa," she said to Ogawa. She turned back to Picard. "We've stitched him back up and we're transfusing him now. He's in a coma, but his vitals are better. He won't wake for sometime – and it will be some time before I can assess the possible damage done – but he's got a good chance to pull through, now."

"A good chance?" Picard asked.

"We're in wait and see," Beverly replied. "He'll know you're here. That will help."

Picard said, "Damage?"

"Possible brain damage, due to oxygen deprivation. Again, we have no way of knowing yet what we're dealing with."

"But he's fighting to stay alive?" Picard hadn't wanted to ask this question; he didn't want to know the answer.

Beverly didn't flinch. "We are keeping him alive," she said. "For now." She softened, and placed her hand on Picard's. "There are no guarantees, Jean-Luc," she said. "You know that. But he does know that you are here."

Ogawa came in with the chair, and Picard sat, angling as close to the biobed as possible. He took a breath, and then he reached out and took Will's hand. He didn't say anything; there was nothing to say. Beverly left the room; Picard watched her join up with Deanna as they both walked into Beverly's office.

The rage he'd felt at himself had dissipated and now he just felt deflated; weak. Will's hand, usually so large and strong, lay limply in his own. He clasped his other hand over it, as if he could bring his own warmth to it.

"Here, Jean-Luc," Beverly said, beside him, offering him a mug of tea. "I don't need you passing out."

He smiled grimly, but he took the mug. He sipped it, relishing the burn in his mouth.

"I knew he was in danger," he said. "I knew it, and I did nothing."

Beverly rested her hand on his shoulder. "You can't help him now by blaming yourself," she said. "He needs your strength now, Jean-Luc. We can all take the blame for this after he's recovered."

"If he recovers," Picard said, but instantly regretted it.

"Jean-Luc," Beverly said.

Picard didn't look up; he knew that tone of voice.

"He is not Jack," she said.

"Please," Picard said.

"You love him," she said. "He needs to know. If anything will keep him with us, it's that."

She left the room. Picard sat there, listening to the machines whirring, holding Will's hand, and hoped, with all his heart, that that was true.


	16. Interlude: Three

Interlude: Three

He'd fallen asleep sometime in the night, still holding onto Will's hand. When he awoke, suddenly, groggy and disoriented, the first thing he realised was that Beverly must have wrapped a blanket around his shoulders at some point while he was asleep. The second thing he realised was that Will was still alive. The third thing was that he was not alone.

"What do you want, Q?" he said.

He wasn't surprised. Will had said himself that Q would show up, once he realised there'd been a change in Picard's life. He was too tired, too bruised to really care. Will was still hooked up to all the machines that were keeping him alive. He uncorked his back, stretched his legs, and let go of Will's hand, hoping to jar some feeling back into his own. Sleeping in a chair was a young man's game; he felt every centimetre of every one of his years.

He said again, "What do you want, Q?"

"To understand," Q replied.

Q was behind him; he could see his shape out of his peripheral vision. Picard did not turn around to face him, but angled the chair just a little closer to Will's bed and took Will's hand in his again. Privately Picard could hear his mother's brief prayer, "Give me strength," in a corner of his mind and he almost smiled.

"Why," Q said, "would Riker do this?"

Picard sighed. "I don't owe you anything, Q," he said. "Not this go 'round. And I am not using my pain, or Will's, to edify or amuse you."

"Oh, Jean-Luc," Q said, and his voice was guileless. None of the sardonic or petulant undertones. "Do you really think I'm here to gloat?" he asked.

Picard turned around swiftly and said in a very low voice, "I don't really give a fuck why you're here."

Q was silent. Picard turned himself back to Will's bed, and readjusted the blanket so that it was around his lap, rather than his shoulders. For several minutes there was nothing. Just the sound of the machines whirring, the sound of his own breathing. Then he said,

"You've taken us out of time."

"Yes," Q acknowledged.

"Why? Is Will gone?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word "dead."

"No," Q answered. "But the crisis is on hand. And, despite the voices of so many on this ship, he doesn't want to stay."

"I know," Picard said, his chest aching. "The pain has gotten to be more than he can bear."

"I don't understand," Q said again. "Doesn't he have what he always wanted?"

Picard didn't want to play this game, but if he didn't play the game, Q's unpredictability was sure to cause more pain than answering Q's stupid questions would.

"And what is that, Q?" Picard said.

"You."

You bastard, Picard thought, but instead he said, "Too little, too late."

Q huffed beside him. And here it comes, Picard thought, and braced himself.

"I can give him back to you," said Q. "I can take away his pain."

Picard stood up, the blanket dropping to the floor. "How dare you offer me that?" he roared. "How dare you? Get off my ship."

For a brief moment, Q looked a little surprised, or maybe a little scared. He backed up one step, and Picard felt a childish sense of victory before the crescendo of depression hit him again. Then he just felt old and foolish, and he sat back down in the chair, and reached for Will's hand.

"I could wake him," Q offered, "here, in this time, without hurting him. You could talk to him. Convince him to stay."

"Why would you do that, Q?" Picard asked. "I have nothing to give you, nothing to trade for."

Q said petulantly, "As if I were some merchant in a bazaar."

"Aren't you?" Picard closed his eyes.

"I like Riker," Q said. "I don't understand why, when your lives are so abysmally short to begin with, he would want to make his even shorter."

"I thought you knew everything," Picard said irritably. "You already know the answer to that."

"I may know the answer, Jean-Luc, but that doesn't mean I understand it." Q moved over to stand beside Picard and reached out and touched Will's face.

"Then you and I are on equal footing for once, Q," Picard said.

"If I bring you back, Jean-Luc," Q said, "the crisis will occur. Dr Crusher and her team will do their best, but Riker will die."

"Then you'd best do it," Picard said softly, "so that the rest of us can try to pick up the pieces and start living."

"You won't –"

"No."

Q said, "Oh, Picard."

"Get out, Q," Picard said, "and leave me alone with him."

For a moment Picard thought Q would continue the argument, but Q said merely, "As you wish, _mon capitaine_," and things were apparently back to normal.

Beverly came in. "You're awake, Jean-Luc?" she said.

"Yes," Picard answered.

She checked Will's vitals. "This is the time I hate the most," she said.

"Why?" Picard asked simply.

She sighed. "Any doctor will tell you, Jean-Luc. This hour, just before dawn, is when the crisis, if there is one, will occur. It's when if we're going to lose a patient, we'll lose one now, at this time."

"But he's still stable," Picard said, after a moment.

"Yes," Beverly answered. "He's still stable. He hasn't improved, but he hasn't crashed."

"Will he improve?"

"That's up to him," Beverly said. "You could go lay down, Jean-Luc. There's a cot in my room. I'll stay with him."

"No, I'll stay," Picard replied. "There will be time to sleep, later."

She brought in a chair, quietly, and they sat there together, waiting for a crisis they both knew was coming. Beverly took Picard's hand; his other hand was still holding Will's. When Will's heart stopped, Beverly was already there, and the crash team worked steadily to pull him through.

Picard had backed up against the wall, and was not surprised to find Q standing next to him.

Picard said, "He won't die."

"No," Q agreed. "Not now."

"What did you do?"

Q shrugged. "I told her you'd asked for her," he said. "Perhaps all that was needed was a few extra seconds."

Picard was quiet, watching Beverly as she and her team restabilised Will. "Thank you," he said.

"There's always more than one customer in a bazaar, Jean-Luc," Q said.

Picard knew that if he looked around, Q would be inordinately pleased with himself, so he stayed focused on Will.

"He'll be all right, for now," Beverly said, and Q was gone.

"Yes," Picard agreed. "I'll be in my quarters, for an hour."

Beverly took his hand. "I didn't give Q anything," she said. "He just came and told me you were awake. Get some sleep, Jean-Luc."

Picard glanced at Deanna, standing in the doorway, and then back at Will.

"An hour," he said.

"An hour, then," Beverly agreed, and Picard left the room.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The first thing I was aware of was pain and nausea. I could tell that I was in sickbay; I could hear a conversation between an orderly and Dr Crusher; I could smell the disinfectant; I could feel that I was on a biobed and that I was cold. Someone was holding my hand; when I flexed my fingers I heard the captain say,

"Will? Are you awake?"

I struggled to open my eyes.

"Take your time," he said, his voice very close to me. He let go of my hand, then, and placed his own on my cheek. "It's all right. You're safe."

Had I not been safe? I tried to open my eyes again, but the lighting was painful.

"Beverly?" I heard him call. "He's becoming conscious."

"Will?" It was Dr Crusher now. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," I said.

"This should help, then," she said, and I felt the pressure of a hypo spray in my neck.

I opened my eyes, squinting at the light. Both Dr Crusher and the captain came into view.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"Yes, " I said. "In sickbay."

"What hurts, Will?" Beverly asked.

"My arms," I said. "My neck." I could feel that both my arms were wrapped; there was a bandage around my neck. "What happened?" I asked.

"You don't remember?" the captain asked.

"No," I said. "I – I don't know."

"He may not remember for some time, Jean-Luc," I heard Beverly say.

"I understand," the captain said.

I closed my eyes again, feeling another wave of nausea.

"You should get some sleep, Jean-Luc," Beverly said.

"I did," the captain said, and I heard an undercurrent of steel in his voice.

"If you say so," Beverly said, and I heard her leave the room.

I opened my eyes. The captain was sitting in a chair next to me, and he was once again holding my hand.

"I don't remember much," I said.

"Don't worry about it, Will."

"I'm in the ICU?"

"Yes," he said. "We - I," he amended, "nearly lost you."

"I had lunch with Geordi," I said.

"Will." He placed his hand lightly on my face. "You don't have to remember now. All you have to do is rest. And get well."

I said, "You won't tell me what happened?"

"That's up to your doctor, Will," he said. "I don't particularly want to cross her right now."

"What did you do?" I asked. I wanted to smile, but it was too hard.

He shrugged. "Not go to bed when she told me too, apparently," he replied.

I looked at him. He looked exhausted. His face was grey. There were deep dark circles under his eyes, and stubble on his cheeks, as if he hadn't had time to use the depilatory. His uniform looked as if he hadn't changed it in two days.

"How long have I been here?" I whispered.

"Forty-eight hours or so," he answered.

I looked away, my eyes suddenly filling. "You've been here the whole time?"

"Just about," he said. He put his hand on my shoulder. "We took turns, Deanna and Beverly and I, Will. I've slept. Deanna's supposed to be sleeping, now."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't want to be a burden –"

"William," he said. "You may be a pain in my arse, but you're not a burden." He kissed me lightly. "I'm glad you're back," he said.

I was silent. "I didn't want to come back," I said, finally.

He said, "I know. I won't hold it against you."

I felt tears on my cheeks. "You said you wouldn't send me away."

"And I won't, Will."

"You have to. You'll have to send me to a facility."

"You're not well enough to be transported anywhere," he said.

He hadn't written a report, then. "I can't remember anything after I had lunch with Geordi."

"I know."

I could feel the bandages on my arms and my neck. "I don't -"

"Will. Just rest," he said. "That's the only thing you need to do, now. Rest and regain your strength."

I nodded.

"Close your eyes," he said, placing his hand on mine again. "You need to sleep. Don't worry needlessly, Will. Everything is under control."

I closed my eyes. I heard Beverly come in again, and felt yet another hypo spray. I heard Beverly say, "You need a meal and a shower, Jean-Luc. Go – he'll be fine."

"We need to come up with a plan," he said.

"_We_ don't need to do anything. _You_ need to leave sickbay, before _you_ become a patient yourself. And you're a terrible patient, Jean-Luc, so please, go away."

I heard Beverly laugh, and then I thought I heard Jean-Luc say something, but it was muffled, and then I was asleep.

When I awoke again, I was alone. I was still in the biobed, still in the isolation unit. I was thirsty, terribly thirsty, and the pain was back. I could hear voices outside the room, and I supposed that I could find the alarm, to bring someone in here, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.

I tried to remember the sequence of events that had brought me here. I remembered I'd been to see Deanna, and I vaguely remembered what we talked about. I remembered going to Ten Forward, to meet Geordi for lunch. I remembered something that Geordi had done to his hand. And then – I remembered the smell of blood.

"Will," Beverly was saying, "take it easy, you're all right." She was right beside me. "I don't want to sedate you again, Will. Can you open your eyes and look at me?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Sickbay," I said. Then I said, "I was with Geordi and there was so much blood…."

"Geordi hurt his hand," Beverly agreed. "But it wasn't bad, Will."

"I could smell it," I said.

"Can you smell it now?" she asked. "Will?"

"No."

"Good," she said. "It's over, for now. Are you sore again?"

"Just a little," I answered. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll get you some water."

She left the room. Geordi had hurt his hand, I remembered that now. He'd come into Ten Forward with his hand wrapped. He'd said it was just an accident. He'd said he'd written an accident report.

"Here you go, Will," Beverly said. "Easy. Just a sip. That's it."

I had a few sips of water, just enough to wet my mouth.

"Where's the captain?" I asked.

"I sent him to bed," she replied.

"Good," I said.

"Yes, indeed," and she smiled at me. "You feel a little better, now?"

"I still can't remember anything after Ten Forward," I said.

"Don't press yourself, Will. Deanna will help you, when it's time."

"Okay," I said.

"If you need something, just press this," she said, handing me the call button.

"You mean I'm not your only patient?" I asked.

She laughed. "'Fraid not," she said. "Your celebrity status is over."

She left. I wondered if Deanna had finally gotten some sleep, and when she would come back. I wondered what Jean-Luc meant about having a plan. He said he wouldn't send me away, but I knew damn well that there was no way he could justify me being on a "vacation" now. He'd have to relieve me; and he'd have to send a report. I could feel myself start to shake. There was something about being sent away, something that seemed to be hovering right around my memory, but I just couldn't bring anything to light. Just as I could see Geordi's bandaged hand, but then it was as if nothing else were there.

I closed my eyes.

I was hungry. I opened my eyes to one of the orderlies, I forget his name.

"He's awake," he said, and then, "Up and at 'em, Commander. You've spent too much time in this bed."

Okay, so the worst part about being in sickbay is not what brought you to sickbay to begin with. It's not the injury or the illness or whatever it was originally; it's not the pain, and the nausea from all the hypo sprays, and the disorientation and the grogginess and that weird detached feeling you get from being sedated. It's not being trapped, naked, in a biobed, and no one will tell you what happened, or why you're there, and you've got a catheter in your damn dick and you're thirsty and can't even have a drink.

No. It's being manhandled by two orderlies who think it's funny to boss the XO of the ship, who think it's amusing to shove him around and tell him what to do, and yank the fucking catheter out and make him wear a stupid gown with his entire ass hanging out while they clean him up and put him in a normal bed.

So. I am no longer in the ICU, or a biobed. I actually have the privilege of being able to pee in the head by myself. Deanna, who was here briefly, has promised that she will go to my quarters and bring me back my robe and some socks and my pajamas, as well as my toiletries. (Apparently I still have to be here for another few days.)

I have been allowed to sit up. I have actually been given water that is not in a two-year-old's sippy cup. And I have been given something to eat, even if it was crap. (How can the very same replicator, which prepares my meals, make crap here in sickbay? That will definitely be on my agenda, if I ever get the opportunity to have my job back.)

"I'm so glad to see you're feeling better, Will," Deanna had said.

"How can you tell I'm feeling better?" I asked. I was standing in my bare feet with my ass hanging out waiting for them to fix my bed. I was definitely not feeling better.

"Because you look like you're about to go Klingon on someone," she said, laughing. "You must be feeling better."

I rolled my eyes. "Is that the best you can do?" I asked. "Let's trade places and see if you enjoy having your ass on display."

"Oh, Will," she said. "Any crewman in here has experienced the same process."

"That makes it so much better," I replied.

Beverly stopped. "What's the matter with my patient?" she asked.

"He's having a temper tantrum," Deanna said, still laughing.

"Good, it means he's feeling better. We'll have you out of here in no time, Commander," and she vanished into her office.

"I don't have temper tantrums," I said as I was finally allowed back in the bed. "I never did have temper tantrums."

"Of course not, Will," Deanna said. She was suddenly by my side, helping me into the bed as I seemed to have lost my balance. "There you go. We'll ask the latest crop of ensigns if you don't have temper tantrums."

I sighed. "I've never yelled at my ensigns," I said, as she apparently had decided I needed tucking in.

"No," she agreed. "What you do is even worse." She paused, as if she were waiting for me to respond.

"Okay," I said. "I'll bite. What do I do to torment poor, under aged and semi-trained ensigns?"

"You go silent. You give them a look with your ice-blue eyes that makes them feel as if their lives are about to end."

"They should feel that way," I said. "And how is a look a temper tantrum?"

She shook her head. "Trust me," she said. "They come in to me certain that their careers are over. Half the time they don't even know what they've done."

"Besides not have a fucking clue?" I asked.

"And of course you were the perfect ensign, Will," she said. "You always had a fucking clue."

"Deanna!" I said, horrified.

She laughed again. "You think you're the only one with a mouth, William?" she asked. Then she said, "Is there anything else you want from your quarters, except clothes that don't show your lovely arse?"

"My padd," I said.

"For what reason?" and she was the ship's counsellor, instead of Deanna.

"Do I suddenly not have clearance or something?" I said. It was a little shocking, to see her change so quickly.

"Actually, Will," she replied, "you don't have clearance. Not for work. You are off duty. I'm not sure the captain would want you to have your padd. And I'm afraid I would have to agree."

I said quietly, "When was I relieved?"

"You have not been relieved of duty," she explained. "You are on official sick leave, which means you are off the duty roster, but not relieved."

"Am I to be sent to a facility, then?" I asked. I was trying very hard to maintain a matter-of-fact tone. I was not going to break down in front of Deanna; I was not going to weep in sickbay.

"Oh, Will," she said, and held my hand. "No one is sending you anywhere. I thought Captain Picard already made that clear to you."

"He said I wasn't well enough to be transported anywhere. He didn't say I wouldn't be sent to a facility when I was well enough."

"William," Deanna said. "You are staying here. You are not being sent to a hospital, or a facility, or anywhere else. Okay?"

"And how long will that last?" I asked bitterly. "Just until Starfleet finds out that I tried to kill myself."

There was silence, then, in the room.

"What do you remember?" she said.

"I don't remember a goddamned thing," I said angrily, "but I've got bandages on my arms, and scars where I was put back together, and I'm not fucking stupid."

The doors to sickbay opened and the captain walked in.

"What's going on?" he asked as Beverly came out of her office to greet him.

"Will is convinced that he will be sent to a facility," Deanna said.

"I thought," Beverly added, "that he needed to hear from you."

He came over to my bed. "Didn't we have this discussion already?" he asked me. He did not look particularly happy with me.

"Why are you angry with me?" I asked. "If you had just let me die, there wouldn't be any problem at all."

I thought for a moment that he was going to hit me. He turned away from me for a moment, and I could see him visibly bring himself back in control. He said, "Clear the room."

Beverly began, "Jean-Luc –"

"Did I not just give an order?" he asked.

"Sir," Beverly said, and she shooed everyone out, the orderlies, Ogawa, and some other nurse whose name I didn't remember.

The captain remained at perfect attention, and Beverly took Deanna and they disappeared into Beverly's office.

"You," he said to me, "are completely out of order. Do you understand me?"

"Sir," I said.

"What I decide, or not decide, to do is none of your business, do you understand?" he said.

I didn't say anything; it had been a while since I had seen him this angry.

"I asked you a question, Mr Riker," he said.

"Aye, sir," I answered.

"This will be the one, and the only, time I tell you this, Mr Riker," he said. "I will not tell you again. You had an accident in your quarters. You were badly injured. You are on official sick leave, until you heal. That is what my report reads. There is absolutely nothing in that report that is untruthful. You do not need to be sent anywhere. I have a fully functional sickbay that is better than most hospitals, and the best CMO in the fleet. You will continue to do as you are told, by myself, and Dr Crusher, and Counsellor Troi until we determine that you are well enough to return to your position. Have I made myself clear to you?"

"Sir," I said. I was hit with a wave of nausea.

"Acknowledge that I have made myself clear to you, Mr Riker," he said.

I said, "Aye, sir."

"You will never – and I mean never – pull that kind of bullshit on me, or any other member of my staff again, do you understand me?"

"Aye, sir." I didn't know what was happening to me. My stomach was roiling and I could feel myself on the edge of panic.

He stood there, staring at me, as if he had more to say, but was physically stopping himself from saying it. I was clutching the sheet in my hands, trying desperately to control the waves of nausea.

"Captain," Deanna said, "please, he's panicking."

"How convenient," Jean-Luc said, and I started to cry.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm sorry."

"Will – " Deanna began, coming towards me.

"Leave him," Jean-Luc said. He put both his hands on my shoulders and forced me to look at him.

"Jean-Luc, I'm giving him a sedative," Beverly was on the other side of me.

"Not yet," he said, and she stopped.

"Look at me," he said. "William. Look at me."

I looked up at him, afraid that I would see him angry, afraid that he would continue to yell at me, even, though he had never ever done so, afraid that he was going to hit me.

"Sir," I said.

"You are not seven years old. And I am not your father," he said. "Take a deep breath, and realise that you are here, on the _Enterprise_, in sickbay." He paused. "Where are you?"

"In sickbay," I said.

"We will do everything in our power to help you," he said. "Whatever it takes. But you have some responsibility here as well. And one of those responsibilities is to not hurt the people who are trying to help you, just because they are trying to help you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

He pulled me to him, and wrapped his arms around me. "Now," he said to Beverly, and I felt the pressure of the hypo spray in my neck again. "There's no need to cry, Will," he said. "You're exhausted and you're overwrought."

"I'm sorry – "

"I know," he said. "I know. Just go to sleep."

He let me go, and helped me back into the bed.

I said, "I don't want to be alone, Jean-Luc."

"I will be back at the end of my shift," he replied. "Maybe Dr Crusher will set up a cot for me."

"Okay." I could feel the sedative pulling me into sleep. "You aren't mad at me anymore?"

"No," he said. "I am not angry with you anymore. The only person I am angry at, Will, is me. Now just go to sleep, _mon cher_."

I closed my eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: I have absolutely no knowledge of the Providence Hospital behavioural unit in Valdez, Alaska, and I am sure that it is not like the crisis stablisation unit that I am describing here. Perhaps, in the 24th century, facilities like this one won't exist. They certainly do now. CPI is the abbreviation for Crisis Prevention Intervention. It is a way of holding a child in crisis without hurting the child, and without the child hurting you. Nonetheless, to a child, CPI is very scary and feels very much like being hurt. Please see my notes under my profile. If you are susceptible to triggers, do not read this chapter.

Chapter Eighteen

The hospital in Valdez had both a specialised paediatric unit and a crisis unit that was equipped to handle children's psychiatric cases; William spent a week in the specialised care unit, recovering from hypothermia, and then was transferred to the crisis stabilisation unit.

Visiting hours were severely limited, to only one hour every evening after dinner, and the Shugaks, despite their best efforts, were not able to visit William every day. A visiting pool was organized, then, and it included Mr and Mrs Shugak, Henry, Rosie and Matt's mothers, and Gareth Davies. The hospital knew that Kyle Riker was on his way back to Earth, and then to Alaska; the Shugaks were listed as William's legal caregivers. Three days a week someone from the village was there to visit William; that left four days when he was on his own, including the weekends.

William's story had once again made the Valdez news, especially since it was the same little boy who'd saved his friend from drowning. It was discovered that William had had several emergency admissions to the hospital; then Starfleet from Anchorage made its presence known, and William's case disappeared from public view.

The crisis stabilisation unit was a small one, with only four beds for young children, and six beds for adolescents. They were on a small wing off the larger CSU for adults, but kept separate from the adults by several locked doors and different mealtimes in the unit cafeteria. The unit served Valdez and the surrounding villages and parkland; when William arrived, the adolescent beds were all full, but there were only two other young children close to his age. Ailsa Rogers was five, on the unit because there were a variety of neuro-developmental disorders; a syndrome was suspected. Christian Larsen was nine, almost ten; he was a behaviour problem, running away and getting into fights. William was seven; he'd attempted suicide, and child abuse was suspected.

William shared a room with Christian, and he hated it. As an only child, he'd never had to share a room with anyone. Even when Dmitri had stayed with him, Dmitri had slept with his grandmother in the guest room. He hated the noises Christian made at night when he slept. He hated having to get up and go to the bathroom, where the light was always on, and listening to Christian's breathing, and his snuffling, and all the other sounds people made when they slept. He wasn't allowed any shoes, or any pyjama bottoms with drawstrings, and he had to hold his pyjamas up as he crossed the cold linoleum floor. If he flushed the toilet it would gurgle and make strange noises, and Christian would wake up and start swearing at him. If he didn't flush the toilet, the bathroom smelled like pee in the morning.

The b-techs woke them at six. Then it was up for a shower that was timed; if you went over three minutes, you were pulled out, wet and soapy. William learned quickly to clean himself or do without; they'd only pulled him out of the shower once, and had CPI'd him because he was crying and struggling to rinse his hair. The b-tech watched him brush his teeth and comb his hair, and then put his toiletries back into a locked box. Mrs Shugak brought William his clothes; he could have jeans with buttons or zippers but no track pants; he could have socks, but no shoes; his jacket could have no strings for his hood. After William was allowed to dress, while Christian was in the shower, the boys would be joined by Ailsa and they would wait at the door for the older kids, and then all walked down together, nine children and four b-techs, to the cafeteria for breakfast.

William had never been a fussy eater, but he was used to the home-cooked meals of Mrs Shugak, or his own breakfasts that he'd made before they'd sent his father away. The only thing William was fussy about was orange juice, which he hated. In the unit, it didn't matter whether you liked something or didn't like it; if you didn't eat or drink what you were given, it went on your report. Sometimes they'd be given milk or apple juice; still, William learned to drink orange juice without making a face, and to eat rubbery eggs, and sodden oatmeal, and burnt bacon. Being CPI'd hurt; William was tired of hurting.

After breakfast, there was group with one of the staff social workers, or the doctor would come, to check on them physically, particularly William. Then there was school, with a hospital teacher. William's first day of school was a nightmare; he'd been given second grade work, which he finished in about twenty seconds, and the teacher had accused him of cheating off Christian's work. William had been outraged; he'd never cheated in his life (why would he have to?), and when he'd tried to point out that Christian's work was older and wrong, he'd been CPI'd and sent into the lockdown room. That had been one of the nights that Gareth Davies had shown up for visitation; William had had his visitation rights revoked, and it had been Gareth Davies who had thrown a temper tantrum.

Two days later, William had been given his work from Miss Anna, and from Mr Demetrioff and Mr Levesque, and the hospital teacher had been told to leave William alone; Mr Davies would be responsible for William's schoolwork.

It was at that point that William realised that Christian hated him, and that, unlike Dmitri, Christian was a fairly dangerous child.

William had been in the CSU for almost ten days when Christian began his campaign. Children who are damaged recognise each other right away; William knew why Christian was the way he was; he was, after all, just like Christian. Christian acted his rage and aggression outward; William had turned it against himself. Christian knew when William was touching himself at night to get relief so he could sleep; Christian didn't bother to even hide what he did.

Bedtime was eight-thirty; lights out at nine. Christian waited until the lights went out and the b-tech, a big, burly guy named Brec, had finished his rounds, and then he said,

"I bet you liked it when your dad fucked you, eh?"

William didn't say anything. He pulled the woolen blanket up around his face and turned his back to Christian. He felt his hand creep down towards his penis, but he stopped it. He tried to pretend he was asleep.

"Did he make you suck him? I bet you liked that," Christian said. "I bet your mouth gets all wet just thinking about it."

William tried to block out the pictures that were forming in his head. He closed his eyes tightly, and a tear trickled down his cheek.

"I bet he tore you all up when he shoved his big dick in your hole," Christian said.

William could hear that Christian was sitting up.

"I bet you're hard, just thinking about it," Christian whispered.

"Shut up," William said.

"I know I'm hard," Christian continued. "Why don't you come suck me, William? I bet you've got a sweet mouth."

"Shut up," William repeated.

"Come on, William," Christian said. "I won't fuck you right away, I promise. You can just suck me tonight. You can get used to it, like with your dad."

William heard Christian get out of the bed. He pulled the blanket up over his head, and shrank down under the covers. He heard Christian's bare feet slap against the linoleum floor, until Christian was standing right beside him.

"I know you want it, William," Christian said. "I've heard you doing it. After you suck me, maybe I'll jack you off, make you feel good, William."

"Leave me alone," William said from underneath the covers. "I'll call the b-tech."

"Go ahead," Christian said. "What makes you think he won't fuck you too? Especially since we all know that's what you like."

"Please," William said, crying.

Christian climbed onto the bed and pulled the woolen blanket off William's face. "Don't cry, baby," he crooned, taking William's face in his hands. "You don't have to cry. It'll be all right, I promise. You just take it in your mouth, there's a good boy."

William opened his mouth, and let Christian stroke his face and his hair.

"That's a good boy, William," Christian said softly, wiping away William's tears. "You're such a good boy. Take it all, that's it. That's a good boy."

William closed his eyes. When Christian was finished, he put the blanket back up against William's face and whispered in his ear,

"Did your daddy tell you that he'd kill you if you told, William?"

"No," William answered. Christian was holding the blanket against his mouth.

"Really?" Christian seemed to find that difficult to believe. "You didn't tell anyway, did you?"

William shook his head.

"Maybe your dad wouldn't kill you if you told," Christian said, and he pulled the blanket taut against William's mouth. "But I will."

Christian took the blanket away. William felt warmth spreading along his legs and pooling down into the bed.

"I won't tell," William said. "I'll be a good boy."

In the morning William was CPI'd for refusing to drink his orange juice, and spent the day in lockdown. It was noted in the report that he'd begun to wet his bed.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

I was dreaming. At least I think I was dreaming. I couldn't breathe. Something was pressing down on me and my chest hurt and I couldn't breathe. At first I thought I was underwater, because that's what it felt like, sinking down into cold water, but that's not what was happening. I kept thinking that there was a problem with the blanket, that it was covering my face, and that's why I couldn't breathe, but I couldn't move my arms in order to get the blanket off my face, and then I was somewhere else, like in a closet or something, and it was that weird darkness that you get that's not really dark but you can't see, and the door wouldn't open, and then the blanket was in my face again and I kept smelling that moist woolly smell, like mothballs or something.

I heard Dr Crusher say, "I'm concerned about constantly sedating him."

Deanna said, "Hypno-therapy was proven unsuccessful with complex PTSD, Beverly. You can't let him remain in this state."

"I know, but I don't have to like it," and I felt another hypo spray in my neck.

When I woke again, it was probably close to dinner time. Alyssa Ogawa came over to me and asked if I wanted help from an orderly to go to the head and clean up a bit.

"You can even have a shower if you want, Commander," she said.

"What about the bandages?" I asked.

"I'm sure we can remove them now," she said. "I'll just check with Dr Crusher."

"I'd like a shower," I said.

"Good. I'll be right back."

She returned with Beverly and one of the orderlies, a crewman named da Costa. I wasn't sure why Beverly should be involved in something minor like removing my bandages, but then I remembered my earlier behaviour, and perhaps Ogawa thought I would flip out when I saw what I'd done to myself. I don't know. Maybe Beverly thought I would flip out. I had no intentions of flipping out; I just wanted a shower and something to eat.

"Da Costa will help you into the shower, Will," Beverly was saying as Ogawa unwrapped my arms.

Of course the wounds were healed, but the scars were long and livid.

"It's a good thing my uniform has long sleeves," I said.

"They'll fade with time," Beverly said, but she said it sharply, as if she didn't find me funny.

"Do I need a minder to take a shower?" I asked.

"Yes," Beverly said, "I'm afraid you do."

I felt bad for da Costa. It wasn't his fault I was an abject failure at committing suicide. He followed me morosely into the head, and studiously averted his eyes as I slipped out of my pyjamas. The head was so small he might have well just come into the shower with me. I thought about asking him to wash my back, but I supposed that was pushing it. There was hardly enough room for me to step out of the shower to dry, so I had him hand me the towel so I could dry off in there. He gave me my pyjama bottoms, which I put on in the stall, and then stepped out of the head so I could put the top on and run a comb through my hair.

"You don't have to bandage my arms anymore, right?" I said to Ogawa.

"No, sir," she said. "Can I get you anything before I go off duty, Commander?"

I thought of a list of things that might make this experience more bearable. There wasn't one thing on that list that she could help me with.

"No, thanks," I said.

I got back in the bed, and watched Ogawa leave. Da Costa was still hovering around me.

"What?" I said.

"Sir," da Costa responded.

"This is a room full of people," I said. "You still have to hover around me?"

"Dr Crusher said I was to stay with you, sir," he replied.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "Well, can you stay about ten feet away and watch me? Unless you'd like to climb into bed with me?"

"Sir –"

"For fuck's sake," I said.

I sighed. If I'd thought I'd been bored before, now I'd made it a hundred times worse for myself. Without my padd I couldn't even finish the novel I'd started. And with da Costa three feet away from me – what was I going to do, anyway? Jump an orderly for surgical scissors?

Beverly came out of her office, looking wiped out, and walked over to me.

"Jean-Luc said he'll be along in twenty minutes or so," she told me. "You can eat in my office, if you'd like some privacy."

"Do I have to offer da Costa food, too?" I asked.

"Will," she said. "We all have a job to do, and da Costa is following orders."

"I understand that you don't think you can trust me," I said. "I don't trust me. But does he have to breathe on me?"

"If I didn't have your medical records," she said, "I'd guess that you were about Wesley's age right now."

"So I've regressed," I said. "Just because I understand the order doesn't mean I have to like it. Why can't I just be discharged? I'm not in any medical danger now, am I?"

She actually rolled her eyes. "I'm beginning to think I liked you better when you were sedated," she said. "Will. As your doctor, I am telling you that not only do you need to be here – _still_ need to be here – but that you also need Mr da Costa as well. And since I am in control of the hypo sprays, it's a good idea not to annoy me." She smiled, as if that would mitigate what she was saying.

"So what are you going to do with me, then?" I said. "Do we have a locked psychiatric unit on this ship? Because I don't remember one. Maybe," I said, "you could just leave me with Worf in the brig."

"You know, Commander," she said, "if I have to create a locked ward, I will. So why don't you just settle down before the captain gets here?"

There were any number of things I supposed I could have said, but I must have some small instinct for self-preservation left.

"If the captain still wants to spend the night here, I've left orders for a cot to be set up," she said. "Otherwise, Will, I am going to my quarters. Dr Sandoval is on for tonight."

"Okay," I said.

I'd forgotten that I'd asked Jean-Luc to stay with me. I wondered if he was still angry. Obviously I still was. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing, on letting go of the irritation and – I wasn't sure what else I was feeling. Frustration, maybe. If I could remember what had happened, I could at least have the illusion of control, but there was still a wall there. I just remembered tasting the borscht, and then Geordi hitting his hand. After that, nothing.

"Will?"

I opened my eyes; Jean-Luc was standing beside my bed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said.

"I wasn't asleep," I said. He was still looking very tired.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I was waiting for you."

I started to get out of the bed and he reached out to grab my arm, and I saw him flinch and then mask it.

"They look pretty bad," I said. My earlier anger was giving way to embarrassment.

"Yes," he said. "You were quite effective, I'm afraid. How is the pain?"

I shrugged. "Not so bad," I answered. "Just achy." I turned to da Costa, who had been standing at attention when Jean-Luc entered the room. "This is Mr da Costa," I said. "He's been taking care of me, despite my best efforts to drive him away."

"Sir," da Costa said.

"Mr da Costa," the captain acknowledged. "Commander Riker and I will be eating in Dr Crusher's quarters."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said. "Dr Crusher had informed me, sir."

"Good," Jean-Luc responded. "Come, Will. I missed my lunch, so I'm hungry."

He'd given up his lunch so he could come to sickbay and yell at me. Well, that was a good way to begin an evening together, I thought.

"I'm sorry," I said as we walked into Beverly's office.

"For?" he asked. "Lights, fifty percent."

Beverly had a small table, and he pulled it over and arranged her two office chairs around it.

"This afternoon," I said.

"Ah." He turned from the replicator and looked at me. "Sit down, Will," he said. "I understand you've been giving Dr Crusher a hard time, too."

I sat, and looked at the floor.

"Will?" He was waiting for a response.

"She gives as good as she gets," I offered.

He sighed. "Do you think you're amusing?" he asked. "Because you're not."

I didn't say anything, because I could feel the anxiety pooling in my gut again. He walked back from the replicator and pulled the chair over, so that he was sitting next to me.

"Will?" he said. "Look at me."

I looked up, trying to keep myself in control. I was so tired of feeling like a little kid, ready to weep at a moment's notice.

"The only way this is going to work, William," he said, "is if we are both open with each other."

I nodded.

"You have to understand, Will, that I care very much for you. You do understand that, yes?"

"Yes," I said.

"I would like – " and he paused, searching for what he wanted to say, in that kind, deliberate way he had, "for us to continue as we were before you hurt yourself. Is that what you would like?"

Fuck, I was going to cry anyway. "Yes," I said.

"Then you also have to understand," he continued, his voice hardening somewhat, "that I am very angry with you, and likewise very angry with myself. What you did – it hurt, Will. It hurt me. And I've gone a very long time without putting myself into that kind of place, where I could get hurt like that."

"Jean-Luc – "

He took my hand. "Let me finish," he said. "So I'm angry, William, because you frightened me, because I nearly lost you when I've only just had you; because you didn't think what we might have was worth staying here for. And I'm angry with myself, because I knew you were so close to the edge. I knew you were in tremendous pain, and I knew about what you'd done when you were seven. I could have prevented this, Will, except that I deluded myself into thinking we had more time."

"I'm sorry," I sad, miserably.

"I know," he said. "It's perfectly normal, Will, for me to be angry. You've lived so long without knowing what feelings are normal that this is very hard for you, but being angry with both you and myself is a normal reaction to what happened. I want you to understand that," he explained, "because I want you to understand that it's nothing that I can't handle, and it's something that we both can work through. Does that make sense to you?"

"I guess," I said. "I don't think this is stuff I'm very good at."

He smiled. "Of course you aren't," he said. "The truth is, neither am I. If I were good at this stuff, as you say, Will, I'd be back in LaBarre with ten children and a winery, most likely. But just because I'm more comfortable fighting Romulans doesn't mean I won't work to do what needs to be done."

I said, "You aren't giving up on me, then?"

"No," he said. "I don't give up that easily. Surely you know that."

Yes, I knew that.

He waited for a moment, still holding my hand. Then he said, "You're angry with me, and you're going to have to acknowledge it, Will, if you want this to work."

"I'm not – "

"You said," he began, "when we were on the beach, that you trusted me. Is that still true?"

"Yes," I said.

"What do you think will happen if you admit to being angry with me?"

"Nothing," I said. "I'm not fucking stupid, Jean-Luc; I don't think the world will end if I say I'm angry."

"No? Didn't it, nearly?"

"But – "

"But what?"

"I didn't try to kill myself because I was angry," I said. "Certainly not because I'm angry with you."

He said, "I can't think of any action that's more filled with rage than what you did."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Just tell me. Please."

"It is normal, Will, for you to be angry and resentful, I think. Were I in your place –and," he looked at me intensely, "—I very nearly was, after the Borg, I would be very angry and resentful of whoever was responsible for not letting me die. Can you acknowledge those feelings, do you think?"

I looked at the floor again. "Haven't I already said that?"

"No," he said. "What you said was meant to hurt, and it did."

"I can't do this," I said. "I don't know how to do this."

He was still holding my hand.

"You found me?" I asked. "Because I don't remember anything."

"Yes, _mon cher_," he said. "Guinan called me from Ten Forward."

"You want me to say that I'm angry because you saved me?"

"Will," he said patiently. "I don't want you to say it if it's not true."

"I don't know," I said, and then it was as if weeks of anxiety and stress and all the shit that went with it, the night terrors and the panic attacks and the flashbacks and the pain, just detonated like uncontrolled ordinance. "I don't know!" I shouted. "I don't fucking know!" I jumped up and knocked over the chair and the table; I pushed the captain away and then I was throwing whatever was in front of me, just hurling things against the wall.

The door opened, and da Costa charged in, with the doctor not far behind, but Jean-Luc stood in front of them, keeping them away from me.

"Stand down," he said to da Costa. "Mr da Costa."

"But, sir – " da Costa protested.

"I have this," the captain said. "Just leave, please."

"Sir – " da Costa insisted.

"Now." the captain said, firmly.

He turned to me, after shutting the door on both da Costa and the doctor. I was against the wall, breathing heavily, surveying the destruction that was Dr Crusher's office.

"Oh, God," I said, sliding down to the floor.

He walked over to me, carefully avoiding the debris, and then sat down next to me.

"Come here, Will," he said, and he pulled me into his arms.

"You should have left me," I said. "Why didn't you just leave me?"

"Because I'm a selfish bastard," he said, "and I didn't want to lose you."

I said, "You saved my life because I'm good in bed?"

He kissed the back of my neck. "And other reasons," he added. "Where would I get another first officer, at such short notice? Who would run the poker game? Who would keep Mr Worf from eating ensigns?"

I was laughing, then, and so was he.

"You're going to waste away, because of me," I said. "First I make you miss your lunch, and now your dinner." I looked at Beverly's office. "You didn't save my life for long, Jean-Luc. Beverly's going to kill me, when she sees this."

He stood up, and helped me to my feet. "At least you didn't break anything," he remarked. "It was a very controlled outburst, Will. We can get poor Mr da Costa in here. He'll help us clean up."

"I'm sure Dr Sandoval already called Beverly," I said. "She'll create that locked ward for sure, now."

He was righting the table, and he looked at me. "What locked ward?" he asked.

"I was being an asshole," I said, "and Beverly threatened me with a locked ward."

He shrugged. "It's her unit," he said. "I wouldn't cross her."

He opened the door, and let both da Costa and Dr Sandoval in. "No harm done, Mr da Costa," he said. "Why don't you give us a hand?"

"Sir," da Costa responded.

It was much more efficient to let da Costa do it, so I stood back and watched him right Beverly's office.

"Dr Crusher is on her way," Sandoval reported.

Jean-Luc sighed. "You needn't have bothered her," he said. "I had things under control."

"I'm sorry, sir," Sandoval replied. "But Dr Crusher had standing orders that if Commander Riker became upset, I was to send for her."

"I guess we're both in trouble now, Will," Jean-Luc said.

Da Costa had finished setting the room to rights, and he and Dr Sandoval left the office, I guess to wait for Beverly's arrival.

"It will go better for us," Jean-Luc said, "if we're both eating when she gets here."

I looked at him in surprise, and then laughed. "You're a devious man, sir," I said.

We were both sitting rather placidly at the table when Dr Crusher did arrive. We both stood as she entered the room, and I watched in amazement as the captain poured her a glass of wine and sat her in his seat.

"If you think for one minute, Jean-Luc," she said, "that I can't see through your charm – "

He said mildly, "There was no call to send for you, Beverly. It's true Will had somewhat of an outburst, but he was never out of control, and I was right here. I pushed him a little too hard, that's all."

He was leaning against her desk, smiling at her, and I had to look away. Beverly, however, didn't appear to be particularly taken in or amused.

"The description I got was that all hell had broken loose," she said, "and that Commander Riker trashed my office."

"Now you can see that's not the case," Jean-Luc said reasonably.

She looked sternly at me. "Finish your meal, Commander," she said. "I'll take your vitals myself, thank you. And if your blood pressure is up at all, I'll have you sedated and put to bed, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"As for you, Jean-Luc," she said, "if you're going to upset my patient, I'll revoke your permission to stay here tonight."

"Of course," Jean-Luc agreed.

My blood pressure was up, and despite my protests that I was calm, and that I would behave myself, Dr Crusher made good her threat and gave me yet another hypo spray. She let da Costa help me get settled in bed, and she and Jean-Luc stayed in her office for a few minutes.

After she left, Jean-Luc came over to me.

"Have you been sent away?" I asked.

"No," he said. "If you still want me to stay with you, I will."

"You're exhausted," I said. "You won't get any sleep in here."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he answered. "It's up to you, _mon cher_."

"Could you stay just until I fall asleep?" I asked. "I think she gave me a dose that would knock out a horse."

"Of course, Will," he said.

Da Costa brought a chair over, and he sat next to me, and took my hand in his.

"You held my hand the entire time I was unconscious," I said.

"Yes. I wanted you to know that I was with you."

"I did know."

"Deanna said you would," he told me.

"She sent you in with me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I hurt you," I said after a while. "It wasn't deliberate."

"I know that."

"There was just so much blood," I said sleepily. "And I just wanted it all to stop."

"It will be all right, _mon cœur_," he said. "Just go to sleep now."

I closed my eyes.

Beverly said, "He's talking about after he cut himself?"

"No," I heard Jean-Luc say. "I don't believe so. He saw LaForge's hand. That's what started the flashback. No," Jean-Luc said again, and his voice was very controlled, but I could hear the fury in it, "the blood is what he wanted to stop. It's time, I think, to get Kyle Riker involved in this."

"Are you sure, Jean-Luc?" Beverly asked.

I tried to open my eyes to tell him no, but everything felt so heavy.

"Oh, yes," the captain said, "I'm very sure."


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: The abuse that William Riker suffered as a child and that is described in these flashbacks – and later, in his flashbacks, nightmares, and Cognitive Behaviour Therapy sessions with Counsellor Deanna Troi and Dr Alasdair McBride – is integral to the telling of this story. Much of this abuse is presented in a realistic (and sometimes graphic) way. This is the reason for the M rating. This story is not about pornography at all – and you will not find pornography here. However, if you are upset at the depictions of child abuse in a realistic fashion, or if you are susceptible to triggers because of your own past history of abuse, please do not read this story. From here on out, the going is rough, as Will Riker must remember and reintegrate his memories of abuse. Please see my notes under my profile. Again, I have absolutely no knowledge of the behavioural unit in the present-day ProvidenceHospital in Valdez, Alaska.

Chapter Twenty

It was determined that William would remain in the CSU until his father arrived; his father's ETA was in six more days. Besides, William's doctor and social worker had noticed that William was regressing; he was crying easily, he was wetting his bed (something that Mrs Shugak had assured them he had almost outgrown), and he was unable to focus on his schoolwork, even when Mr Davies was there to help him. The b-techs reported that William startled easily, that he appeared to be disassociating more often, and that he seemed afraid of nighttime. The doctor was preparing to make a diagnosis, rare but still viable, of childhood schizophrenia. William was given a combination of an anti-psychotic and a sedative in hopes that his psychological state would stabilise.

William didn't like the way the medication made him feel. He was hungry all the time, but food had no taste. He was sleepy, but his sleep was filled with scary images he couldn't understand. Sometimes, when people spoke to him, it sounded as if they had pillows in front of their mouths. Worst of all, when Christian came to him in the night, even though Christian didn't threaten him anymore, he still wet his bed, despite the promise that the medication would help him stop.

There were times when William didn't really mind Christian coming to him. No one touched you in the unit, unless it was to CPI you, which was scary and really hurt. Christian's voice was soothing, and he called William his "baby;" he stroked William's hair and petted him. One time Christian fell asleep next to him, holding him, and didn't leave his bed until William inevitably wet it. Christian hadn't made good on any of his threats, but William hadn't told either. He didn't really think that Christian could kill him – he was, after all, bigger and stronger than Christian, and he'd had Henry's judo lessons – but he was worried about the b-techs, the one called Brec in particular. In a way, Brec reminded him a little of his father; there was a coiled violence there. When Brec CPI'd you, it was very frightening. And Brec's touch lingered just a half second too long.

Gareth Davies complained about the medication William was on, and the dosage was lowered. William found he tolerated this better; he was capable of thinking, rather than simply wandering around in a half-dream state. Christian immediately noticed the difference.

"I think," Christian said, as he came towards William's bed for his nightly session, "that it's time we fucked, William."

"No," William said.

Christian climbed into the bed, and once again tightened the blankets around William's face. "I will tell Brec what you like," he said.

"No," William repeated.

"So you choose, baby," Christian said. "Me or Brec?"

"Okay," William said.

William decided he needed a plan. He watched Christian's activities for a day, and he looked at the schedule that was posted by the nurse's station. He endured more nights of Christian's attentions, all the while thinking how many bones of Christian's he could break. He remembered the force his father had used when he'd thrown William against the wall and broken his ribs and his collarbone. He knew he could subdue Christian easily; he could imagine hearing Christian's arms snap. He just had to make sure to do it when Brec was off-duty.

Two days before William's father was scheduled to arrive, William put his plan into action. Christian disappeared after lunch to use the bathroom in their room; William knew exactly what Christian was doing when he went in there.

At lunch William said, "You don't have to wait until tonight, you know."

Christian eyed him with interest.

William shrugged. "I'm just saying," he said.

Christian leaned in closely and whispered, "You are so hot, baby."

William gazed at Christian underneath his long black eyelashes, and Christian sucked in his breath.

"After," Christian said.

William, remembering what Dmitri had once said, turned the full wattage on Christian and knew that he'd once again been able to set the hook.

William waited until Christian disappeared into the bathroom. It was supposed to be a free hour; William usually stayed in the rec room and read a book, or simply gazed at the wall. Brec was not on; the b-tech who was was more concerned with chatting up one of the nurses, and didn't care if you were in your room for the hour or in the rec room. As long as your door was open, it was okay.

William drifted down the hallway, and slid into his room. He pulled the sharpened stylus out of his jeans pocket and set it between his two fingers. Then he walked into the bathroom, his hand in his pocket, where Christian was waiting, his shorts down around his ankles and a welcoming smile on his face.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

I know that I'd heard Beverly say that she didn't want to keep sedating me, but I'd actually slept the entire night. I didn't have any dreams that I remembered, and I woke up for the first time in I couldn't remember when without anxiety eating away at my gut. The other good thing was that nobody had to awaken me; I'd awakened on my own, at the usual time that I awoke to get ready for my shift.

Mr da Costa – I still didn't know his first name, and I certainly wasn't going to ask him – was apparently doing another double shift, because he'd been with me through beta and gamma shifts yesterday. Today he was here at alpha shift, and I knew something must have been up, because there was no way that I'd approve that kind of a schedule for anybody, least of all a medical crewman.

"Good morning," I said, "Mr da Costa."

"Commander Riker, sir," he said.

I resisted rolling my eyes. There's a certain kind of young officer or crewman who always overdoes it on the deference routine; saying "Aye, aye" for example. Clearly Mr da Costa was one of those.

"I can have a shower?" I asked.

"Sir," da Costa said.

Well, that was neither a yes nor a no, and I certainly didn't want to start yet another day by pissing Beverly off. I could hear her in her office, but I didn't want to bother her. She'd been working the same long schedule as Jean-Luc, thanks to me, and Data was falling down on his job as first officer if he hadn't yet taken both of them in hand and told them to get some rest.

I said, "So I'm going to get out of bed – no, I don't need any help – and I'm going to take a shower."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said.

I shrugged, since obviously I wasn't going to get more than that out of the man, and I got myself out of bed, relieved that I didn't seem to be having any of the balance issues I'd had yesterday either.

"Do you know where my things are?" I asked.

"Aye, sir, I'll get them," he said.

I waited for him to return and grabbed my robe and toiletries and went into the head, with da Costa close on my heels. The head had already been restocked with fresh linens, which was convenient, but I'd decided to take a sonic shower so as not to have to worry about wetting da Costa too, even though I prefer a water shower.

I finished up, and put my pyjamas back on.

"Do you think Dr Crusher would allow me access to my quarters so I can get some clothes?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir," da Costa said. "I'll let her know you're awake."

I thought, she could hardly not know, seeing as how this morning I was the only patient in here.

"Could I get some coffee?" I asked.

At that point one of the orderlies came over to me with a breakfast tray.

"Here you go, Commander," he said.

He set up a tray table next to my bed, left the tray, and disappeared. I looked at the breakfast, which consisted of toast and fruit, a poached egg, several pills, and orange juice.

"I don't drink orange juice," I said. "What I'd like is a cup of coffee."

Da Costa said, "Aye, sir."

I stood up and moved the tray table over. I picked up the glass of orange juice and handed it to da Costa.

"Here," I said. "You can either drink this, or you can throw it out. I am walking to the replicator and fixing myself a cup of coffee."

Da Costa took the orange juice that I'd handed to him and said, "You don't have permission, sir."

I looked at him. "I am not on a locked ward," I said, "and I am not in a psychiatric facility. I am still – as far as I know – the first officer of this ship. I do not need permission to have a fucking cup of coffee."

"Commander," da Costa said stoutly, "I'll get Dr Crusher."

"You do that, crewman," I said.

I walked over to the replicator, watching an orderly watch me. I'm not sure, but I think at that moment I was fully capable of taking down the next person who moved towards me.

"Coffee, dark roast, three creams," I said to the replicator. The mug appeared, steaming, and just the aroma of the coffee was already working its magic. I glanced at the orderly, who seemed to be edging closer to me. "I will make you wish you had never been born," I said to him. "I am taking my coffee, and I am going back to my bed, where I am going to sit down and eat my breakfast like a good boy, you understand?"

"Sir," the orderly said.

I walked back over to my bed and sat down. I pulled the tray table back and looked at the now- cold toast and egg. Well, at least the fruit was still edible. It was an odd assortment of whatever we'd picked up on our last supply run from God knows where, but I ate it anyway. The group of pills looked like vitamins and supplements of some sort and I swallowed them.

I watched Beverly come towards me, da Costa trailing in her wake like a stupid baby duck.

"What seems to be the problem, Commander?" she said.

"No problem, Doctor," I replied. "See? I'm eating my breakfast. I'm trying to behave."

"Was there coffee on your diet?" she asked.

"There was orange juice, which I loathe," I said.

"You," she said, "are suffering from extreme anxiety, and caffeine is the last thing you need to be consuming. A diet has been prepared for you, to help you with the various medications you are taking and to rebuild your strength and your immune system. Do you understand, Commander?"

"I have," I said, "a paradoxical reaction to caffeine. It calms me down."

"That," Dr Crusher remarked, "is the biggest load of bullshit I have heard from you yet."

I said, "You can look it up if you don't believe me. People who are hyperactive are calmed by caffeine."

"Commander, I do not have to justify my medical degree to you. You will eat what you are given, because it is my medical opinion that it is appropriate for you. Coffee is not on that list. And it's not going to be on the list. And the idea of you staying in the brig with Mr Worf is beginning to have a strange appeal to me." She turned around and walked away, saying to the orderly, "He can have this cup of coffee. But he's not to go near the replicator again, do you understand me?"

"Sir," the orderly said.

I sighed. So much for starting the morning not pissing Beverly off. I ate the cold egg and one piece of what was clearly five-hundred grain and inedible toast. It would have been nice to have some jam for the toast – blueberry, maybe, or my favourite, lingonberry – but since everyone in sickbay was already eyeing me as if I were an escaped Borg I decided to say nothing.

I went back into the head to clean up and brush my teeth, with da Costa again at my heels. I was proud of myself, though; I resisted the urge to fling another sarcastic remark his way. After all, as Beverly had said yesterday, he was just doing his job, which was to make my life more miserable than it currently was, and it was almost like shooting fish in a barrel anyway.

The day seemed to stretch before me endlessly. I sat for a moment on the edge of my bed and considered my options. If I couldn't be dead, said option having been removed from my choices, what exactly did I want? I thought about what Jean-Luc had asked me, if I'd wanted to go back to the way things had been with him before I'd hurt myself. I'd said yes to him, but was that what I wanted?

Reflection, of course, is not a strong suit, but it is enforced in the routine of the first officer. Every log has to include reflection on performance. Well, currently my performance sucked. I would have myself in remediation, were I looking at my own performance review. Which was, I guess, exactly where I was now, in remediation. So I could cooperate with the program, and get my job back, or I could continue to be an asshole, and feel sorry for myself, and piss everyone off, starting with my remediation team.

I'd succeeded in pissing both Jean-Luc and Beverly off yesterday, and today I'd already succeeded with Beverly. This did not bode well for the rest of the day. I assumed that at some point I'd be meeting with Deanna, and the thought of pissing her off, and her going all aristocratic on me, was not an enjoyable prospect either. And I wasn't completely sure that I couldn't succeed in enticing Jean-Luc to violence. He'd come pretty close to it yesterday, and frankly, I'd seen him violent. It was always controlled, but that made it more terrifying. I prefer Worf's violence, because it's predictable, which makes it easier to deal with.

What I needed to do now was take control of the program. I glanced at da Costa, who was standing at parade rest (literally; this guy really was a throwback and I wondered how on earth he had ended up in sickbay when clearly he would thrive under Mr Worf) not three feet away from me. Apparently he believed that I was indeed capable of jumping an orderly for surgical scissors.

"Mr da Costa," I began.

"Sir," he responded, straightening to attention immediately.

"Would you please ask Dr Crusher if I can see her for ten minutes?" I asked.

"Aye, sir." Then he said, "I'll ask Nurse Ogawa to ask Dr Crusher, sir."

Ogawa was clearly visible, talking  
to a lieutenant named Palmieri who was currently assigned to engineering. I realised that of course, da Costa was not allowed to leave my side. He motioned to Ogawa, who nodded and eventually came over.

"Mr Ogawa," I said, "I'd like to speak with Dr Crusher."

"I'll let her know, sir," Ogawa said.

She walked away, and as da Costa returned to parade rest I gave in and rolled my eyes. She was back in a few minutes and told me that Dr Crusher would see me. Now I was Mrs Mallard as da Costa and I walked into Beverly's office.

"Sit down, Will," Beverly said.

I did. Da Costa remained hovering in the doorway.

"Can I speak to you without the presence of Mr da Costa?" I asked. "He can clear your office of sharps first, if it will make him feel better."

"Will," Beverly said. She threw me a pointed look, and resumed whatever she was writing on her padd.

I sighed. "I thought there was such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality," I said.

"If you continue on your current regression," Beverly said, "you'll be an infant tomorrow. Mr da Costa, you have permission to step outside. I will call you should I need you."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said.

He left the room, and I sat and waited for Beverly to finish what she was doing. Finally she put her padd down and looked at me.

"Yes, Will," she said in a voice that indicated infinite patience on her part.

I said, "I'm sorry about the coffee."

"And?" she asked.

I drew in a breath. "I'm not deliberately being an asshole," I said. "I just don't seem to be able to stop."

"Will," she said. She reached out across her desk to me, and I let her clasp my hand for a moment. "We are on the same side here."

I shrugged. "I don't seem to be capable of much rational thought at the moment," I said.

"That's to be expected, Will," she replied. "There have been physiological changes and your brain is trying to adapt. What makes it hard is that your anxiety is interfering with your cognitive functions – which is a typical symptom of PTSD, Will, as well as the depression you're experiencing – and so you are unaware of the damage that you've suffered because of your injuries. You almost bled out, Will. Your heart stopped. You suffered oxygen deprivation. You severely damaged the tendons in your arms. You have physical injuries, internal as well as external, which your brain is dealing with, along with the psychological symptoms and effects associated with your diagnosis of PTSD. You are a complicated mess right now," she said, "and you need to be as patient with yourself as I need to be more patient with you." She paused. "And I'm sorry for not seeming to be involved in your case," she continued. "I am; deeply involved, Will. We – your treatment team – are meeting at 01000 hours to finalise your treatment plan. Once we have the components in place, we'll invite you in so that you can participate in organising your treatment. Okay?"

It was 0830 now. "What do I do until then?"

"Deanna should be here any minute. She has some work for you to do."

I sighed. I could just imagine the "work" she had for me.

"In fact, here she is now," Beverly said as Deanna opened the door.

"Good morning, Will," she said. She gave me a quick hug. "How are we feeling this morning?"

"I'm morose," I said. "I have no idea how you're feeling."

"You can use Room 2," Beverly said. "Have fun." She sounded irritatingly cheery.

"The captain will be here?" Deanna asked.

"He hasn't indicated that he wouldn't be here," Beverly replied.

"Good, I have some news for him," Deanna said. "Come on, Will. I've got some work for you to do."

I stood up, and followed Deanna out of Beverly's office. Da Costa had been right outside the door, and I saw him move to follow us.

"Are you my therapist?" I asked Deanna.

She stopped, surprised. "For the time being," she said, guardedly. "Why?"

I searched her face. "Are you being taken off my case?" I asked.

"Not as your case manager, no," Deanna said. "We'll discuss this later, Will, at your treatment meeting. Again, why?"

"Well, I was just going to mention that I didn't want da Costa in the room," I said, "under the grounds of patient-confidentiality, but now I want to know what's going on."

"Mr da Costa can remain at his post outside the door," Deanna said, looking over my shoulder at da Costa. "I doubt I'll need you, Joao. Commander Riker will be fine with me."

"Dr Crusher said I was to remain with him at all times," da Costa reminded her.

"Oh, my God," I muttered. "But not in private conversations with my therapist or my doctor, da Costa. Just because I'm ill doesn't mean that you can overstep your bounds, do you understand?"

"Sir," da Costa said. "I'm following orders, sir."

"Yeah, they said that at Tarsus IV," I said.

"Will!" Deanna scowled at me. "Go in and sit down, please. Mr da Costa, you will remain outside the door in case I need you."

I walked into the room and I heard da Costa say smartly, "Aye, sir," to Deanna. I sat down in one of the armchairs and stretched my legs.

Deanna came in and shut the door, and then looked at me. "Oh, no, William," she said. "You are not playing games with me. In that chair, over there, by the table. You'll need a surface to write on."

I waited for a minute, and then I grinned at her. "Okay," I said. I got up and sat down where she'd told me to. "I get my padd back?" I asked.

"No," she said, but then softened. "Soon, Will. Stop trying to rush things. Two days ago you were at death's door. You need to give yourself time to heal."

She turned to the door. "Joao, would you hand me my things from over there?"

Da Costa returned with two padds. "Thank you." Deanna shut the door, firmly, and sat down behind the desk. She slid the padd over to me. "There are some things I need you to do, Will," she said. I opened my mouth and she said, "Do not say anything. You are not going to want to do this, I already know." She was trying to look severe, but I could tell she wasn't really angry, more or less resigned in an amused sort of way. "So don't bother to tell me how stupid this is, or how you don't want to do this, or how you don't see to point to any of this. Furthermore," she said, and now she was smiling, "I don't want to hear how you're perfectly fine, and how you can go back to your quarters now, and how everyone else has been picking on you, particularly Beverly. So we'll just pretend that you have already told me all of this, okay?"

I grinned at her. "Okay," I said. "But Beverly has been really mean to me, just so you know."

Deanna rolled her eyes. "You," she said, "are lucky she hasn't called Worf in to deal with you."

"She wouldn't dare," I said.

"Push her far enough and see what happens," she said, smartly.

"I can handle Mr Worf," I said.

"Not now, you can't."

We were at an impasse. I sighed. "What do you want me to do?" I asked, finally.

"I have a self-assessment worksheet that I need you to fill out," she said. "Then I have a few tests I want to run."

"You're joking, right?" I said. "Self-assessment? Really?"

"William," she said. "Let's get you relaxed first. Maybe that will help you with your resistance."

"I get a massage?" I asked hopefully.

"Certainly, Commander," Deanna said, "I can put in an order for you to receive a medical message. That's probably an excellent idea."

"Ouch," I said.

She stood up, and moved over towards me. "Okay," she said. "Close your eyes. Place your feet flat on the floor, that's it. Hands on your knees. Just resting, William. Not so tightly. There you go."

"Deanna – "

"Hush," she said. "Your breathing is too shallow. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Hold it. Now let it out. That's it. Again."

We went through this for about five minutes until I could feel my shoulders and my hands relaxing.

"That's it, Will, that's good. Let's work on some imagery, now."

I tried to follow what she was saying, which was pretty strange in some ways, although not in others. A component of the classes that Worf and I lead in the mornings, as well as a component of tai chi, has always included grounding imagery, but this was a little weird.

"You're resisting again," she said. "Let's go back to breathing."

So we did some more breathing exercises, and then she tried the imagery again. I was supposed to imagine myself in the chair, but that instead of the deck underneath the chair there was ground, earth ground, and I was to imagine that my spine was growing down out of my seat and into the ground, deeper and deeper and forming roots, which were growing and spreading all around me. Somewhere along the way her imagery had started to work, and I was almost asleep when she said,

"Open your eyes now, Will." She waited for me as I did, and then she said, "Where are you?"

"In sickbay," I answered, blinking.

"What I have for you to do on this padd, Will, is a brief pro-and-con worksheet regarding your short and long term goals for healing. Read it and fill each space, as honestly as you can."

I looked at the worksheet, which was a simple spreadsheet. There were two rows and four columns. The two rows were entitled "Continuing as I am" and "Getting help." The columns were short-term, pro and con, and long-term, pro and con.

"Who is going to read this?" I asked.

"This is for me, as your case  
manager," Deanna answered, "and your treatment team."

"Which consists of?"

"Myself, Captain Picard, Dr Crusher, and Gwyn Otaka," she said, "who is your nutritionist, and your therapist, when he arrives. I imagine, but I don't yet know, that we will be adding Jai Patel as your physical therapist to the team."

"Not Starfleet?"

Deanna said, "Captain Picard has already discussed that issue with you. I need you to answer this honestly, Will."

"But – oh, all right," I said ungraciously.

She went to work on her padd – probably finding more stupid self-assessments for me to take – and I looked at the spreadsheet. Short-term goal, Continuing as I am, pro. It was hard to think there were any reasons in the short-term for me to continue to be a resistant asshole, except that maybe - just maybe – it gave me some semblance of control. I wrote down that I had some control over my current situation by being where I was. The cons were pretty obvious. Being in sickbay, being treated as if I were unsafe, being yelled at by everyone, having nothing to do. For getting help in the short-term, I put down that maybe people would stop yelling at me. Or maybe I would stop pissing people off. The cons were filling out self-assessment forms and having to talk about stuff I didn't remember. For the long-term, the pros were that I didn't have to think about the bad stuff, that I could continue to pretend it didn't exist, and that maybe PTSD was a bit like other illnesses, and I could go into some sort of a remission on my own. The cons were that I would lose my job and have no where to go. The pros – Deanna had said that there were better treatments for what I had. Jean-Luc said that he wouldn't send me anywhere, and that I could trust him. I wrote down that maybe I could get better, and I could get my job back. The cons were pretty simple – none of this stuff would work, and I should just go ahead and try to end everything, only do it correctly this time.

"Will you send it to me?" Deanna asked.

I nodded, and clicked send.

"We're going to breathe for another five minutes," Deanna said, "and then I have some tests I want you to take. They will appear random and maybe a little strange to you, Will, but there is a definite medical reason behind them."

"Okay," I said.

She took me through the breathing again, and then gave me a series of tests that had to do with picking out one number, or one letter, or one word, out of a series. Then she gave me some memory tests, where I had to recite alphabet letters and nonsense words back to her, as many as I could remember. This went on for about thirty minutes or so, until I was ready to have another meltdown.

"We're done," she said at last. "You don't have to start throwing things, Will."

I felt my face colour. "You know about that?"

"Of course," she said. "I've talked to the captain about leaving the therapy to me." She smiled.

"Is that what he was trying to do?" I asked. It was hard not to smile back at her, even though she'd given me those stupid tests.

"He assures me that he was not actually trying to take a therapeutic approach to you," she said, "but at this point, talking to you about your feelings is probably going to produce more 'feelings' than the captain was expecting."

I snorted. "He was as cool as a cucumber," I said. "Da Costa came charging in like the fucking cavalry and he simply told him to stand down."

Deanna said, "He's handled scarier situations than your temper tantrums, my love."

"So if he's no longer in charge of my counselling – " and I paused here, remembering what he'd called "counselling," "—what is he in charge of?"

Deanna smirked. "We've made him in charge of hugs and kisses," she said.

I could feel myself turning scarlet, and she laughed. "There are times when I really, really hate you," I said. But I could just see Jean-Luc's face as Deanna and Beverly told him his new job, and I burst out laughing.

She stood up, and came around the desk and hugged me. "See, you feel better already," she said as she kissed me on my cheek.

"What am I supposed to do while you are all in there talking about me?" I said.

"You can go back to tormenting Joao da Costa," she quipped, and she opened the door to da Costa standing right outside it.

I had to hand it to da Costa. He'd have had to be deaf, not to have heard what Deanna had said, and yet he never even twitched.

"If I can keep the padd," I said hopefully, "I could finish that novel you told me about. I'll be good, I promise."

Beverly walked out of her office. "Actually, Will," she said, "I'm going to check your vitals before we decide anything."

"You're not going to sedate me again," I said.

"I'd prefer not to," she replied.

The doors opened and the captain walked in, and both Deanna and I just about fell to the floor.

He looked perplexed. "You seem in better spirits, Number One," he said.

I pulled myself together. "I'm trying to be good," I said.

"Indeed." He looked a little sceptical.

"You're doing fine, Commander," Beverly said, as if there weren't two conversations going on around her.

I sat back down on the bed. "So I can have the padd?" I asked.

"That's up to the captain," Deanna said.

"I thought that wasn't his job anymore," I said.

The captain said, "I've been relieved of a job?"

Deanna said, warningly, "Will."

"Just your counselling job," I said innocently.

He stared at me for a minute and then he said, "I hope no one's taking away riding too."

I heard Deanna choke, and I looked at the floor.

"At some point," Beverly said, "someone had better clue me in on all the innuendo flying around here. In the meantime, Commander," she said, looking rather pointedly at me, "you may use a padd as long as it is, as you said, to finish the novel you were reading."

"Sir," I said.

"Now," Beverly continued, "that we've got that settled, the meeting needs to get started." She turned to da Costa. "You may give Commander Riker a padd. He can read or he can rest in bed. If he wants something to drink, he can have juice –" she looked at me "—other than orange – or water. You're scheduled for lunch at noon, Commander."

"Okay," I said.

Beverly turned and walked into her office, and Deanna followed, but not before giving me a quick smile. Jean-Luc waited until they'd left, and then he said,

"I'm sure you'll elucidate the joke at some point, Number One."

"Aye, sir," I said, my face colouring again.

He stared at me for a minute, and then he shook his head.

"I know," I said, "I'm a royal pain in your arse."

"How true." He gave me a bemused smile, and walked into Beverly's office.

"Well, da Costa," I said. "It's just me and you again."

I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw da Costa roll his eyes as he went into Room 2 to fetch the padd.


	22. Interlude: Four

Interlude: Four

Picard was knackered after watching Will fall asleep. He'd spoken briefly to Beverly, and then had left sickbay with the intention of returning to his quarters and passing out. But in the turbo lift he realised, suddenly, that his quarters would be empty. That Will wouldn't be on his way there, with his toiletries and a handful of clothes, not surreptitiously coming down the corridor but discreetly, perhaps, not wanting to be seen by a crewman walking by as the first officer ducked into the captain's quarters with his bedclothes. The last night they'd had together had been more than Picard had hoped for, without even realising that he'd been hoping at all.

Well, he wasn't going to get all sentimental over it, but perhaps it would be nice to have a small drink, and he turned himself around and headed to Ten Forward. He didn't actually think he wanted companionship – he could have just stayed in sickbay and had a drink with Beverly, she looked as if she could have used one – but he didn't want to face his empty bed just yet.

He walked into Ten Forward and was immediately aware that there was surprise in the room; the captain showing up was a bit out of the ordinary. Still, he was sure that the entire ship was well aware of the first officer's life-threatening injury – that's how it had deliberately been given out – and so perhaps there might be some indulgence, if, after a long day, the captain felt the need of a drink. He saw Data and Worf and Geordi together at a corner table – he knew he'd have to say hello, at least – but he had no real desire to update them on Will's status.

He stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey. He hated synthehol, and he knew Guinan kept some real whiskey under the counter for him, but she wasn't at the bar - He was looking at the table by the window, currently empty, where Will usually held court, particularly when he was one-on-one with someone, talking over personnel issues with Deanna, or having lunch with Geordi –

"Picard," Guinan said, "you don't want to drink that." She took the shot glass of synthehol away, and poured him a shot of the real stuff she kept for him. "Here, drink this down, then have another."

He felt his lips curve upward a fraction. "Have one yourself," he said.

"Don't mind if I do," she replied. "Commander Riker's table is free," she commented. "Let's go sit."

He sighed, but took the glass and followed her to Will's table. He pulled the chair out for her, and she smiled, briefly, before she sat. He sat down slowly, as if his bones were aching. He felt – even though he rarely sat at this table, with Will – curiously bereft.

Guinan sipped her drink. He looked at his and then gazed out the window. They were wrapping up the survey; would be done in a day or so. Then it would be on to Starbase 515 to pick up the specialist in Will's treatment. He looked back at the table, and then picked up the glass and took a sip.

"I should give you the stuff I have in my quarters," he said.

Guinan said, "It's not wrong, Picard."

He looked up at her, surprised.

"What's not wrong?" he asked.

Guinan took another drink and watched him.

"It hasn't seemed to help him," he replied, finally.

"How would you know that?" she asked quietly.

"Look at where he is," he said bitterly. "Look at what he's done."

"Exactly," Guinan said. "He's in sickbay. Not a cargo hold."

Picard sighed. "If Starfleet finds out – "

"No one on this ship will tell them," Guinan said.

"No." He took another drink and finished the glass.

"What bothers you the most, Picard?" she queried. "What he did?"

"No," Picard said. "I can understand the desire to stop the pain."

"That he doesn't love you enough to want to work things out with you?"

That hit too close to home. "Is it that which hurts so much?" he asked.

Guinan took his hand. "Picard," she said. "William Riker doesn't remember what love is. He lost it when he was a baby. You can't fault him for not knowing how to do it."

Picard said hopelessly, "Then what do I do?"

"That's easy, Picard," Guinan said, smiling. "That little boy had a mother who loved him. You've seen her records. She would have fit well, as first officer on this ship. As her son does now. Help him remember her."

"We'll need the father for that," Picard said. "And currently I'd like to kill him."

"It was a perfect storm of circumstances that hurt that little boy," Guinan said. "Kyle Riker was only part of it."

"The essential part," Picard said. "The part that did the most damage. I had so much trouble, I thought, pleasing my father, trying to get him to love me the way I was, not the way he wanted me to be. But he always loved me. He always was a father to me. He always did his best for me. I don't understand the evil that is someone like Kyle Riker."

"And yet look at the tremendous good he has done for the Federation," Guinan said.

"Fuck the Federation," Picard said. "They had a responsibility to protect Will, and they fed him to that monster."

"Life is much more complicated than that, Picard," Guinan said. "It's never that clear-cut."

"There is never," Picard responded in a low voice, "justification for sexually abusing a child."

"No," Guinan agreed.

Picard sighed.

"LaForge needs to hear from you that this was not his fault," Guinan said after a while. "And Data has some questions that only Will can answer. And Worf is not totally convinced that there wasn't some sort of an enemy that he should have been protecting Will from."

Picard groaned. "In the morning," he said.

"Don't leave it too long. Especially not LaForge."

"No," Picard said. "The treatment plan meeting is tomorrow."

"Are you going to call Kyle Riker?" Guinan persisted.

"There is no way that Will is ready to face his father, not now," Picard said.

Guinan repeated, "Are _you_ going to call Kyle Riker?"

"It's what I should do," Picard said. "His flashback is about his mother, I think."

"He loves you, Picard," Guinan said. "As best he can, he loves you. He needs you to be strong where he can't be."

"Yes," Picard said. "I will communicate with Kyle Riker. I'll bring it up tomorrow at the meeting. But Deanna is not going to like it."

"Deanna needs to let him go," Guinan said. "It's you he needs right now, Picard."

"How are you so wise?" Picard asked wonderingly, and was amazed to find that there were tears in his eyes.

Guinan's face widened into a broad smile. "Live as long as I have, Picard," she said, "and you'll find you don't have a choice."

Picard found himself smiling in return. "Thank you, my friend," he said simply.

Guinan shrugged. "Q isn't the only one who can help Will," she said, "and I can do it without distorting the space-time continuum."

Picard choked back a laugh. "Indeed," he said. "Will and I are lucky to have you."

LaForge came over and stood waiting patiently for Picard to notice him. Guinan smiled at LaForge, and left the table, nodding once to Data and Worf. She disappeared behind the bar, talking as she did so to Miles O'Brien and the crew chief from bio.

"Yes, Mr LaForge?" Picard said.

"How is Commander Riker, sir?" LaForge asked.

"He is recovering," Picard said. "It will be some time before he is well enough to return to duty."

LaForge said, "I should have stopped him."

Picard stood up, and tugged at his tunic. "Mr LaForge," he said. "I don't believe that any one of us could have stopped him. It won't help his recovery to feel guilty over what happened. We just have to support him now, so that he can heal."

"Yes, sir," LaForge said. He sounded like a little boy, and Picard rested his hand on LaForge's shoulder.

"Geordi," he said. "You and Guinan did what you could. And those seconds that you saved, by realising that something was terribly wrong and contacting me directly, are what enabled us to save Will's life. I am very grateful to you, for that."

He brought his hand down, and then he walked away quickly, before he made an utter fool of himself in front of Geordi LaForge.

In his quarters, he organised Will's belongings, giving him a drawer where Will could put his clothes, and tucking Will's padd away in the nightstand. Then he opened up communications with the Federation, and patched through a request for Kyle Riker to contact him at his earliest convenience.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

My head was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. It felt as if someone were slamming it, over and over again, into concrete, or maybe it was tiled floor, because I could smell disinfectant or bleach burning my nostrils and my eyes. I was begging him to stop, to stop hurting me, please stop hurting me, oh God my head, it hurts please I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it….

From far away I could hear someone calling out, and then I felt strong arms holding me, and I could hear someone – I didn't know who – telling me that I was going to be all right, but my head hurt so bad that I couldn't really hear what he was saying, couldn't really tell what was going on, and I kept asking for it to stop.

I thought I heard Jean-Luc say, "Thank you, Mr da Costa, I have him now," and I felt Jean-Luc's arms around me, almost as if he were cradling me, and I heard da Costa say,

"Captain, he's in the middle of it, just talk to him softly, you'll be able to bring him out of it,"

and then I heard Jean-Luc say, in that mild voice of his, right next to my ear,

"_Mon cher_, it's all right, you're going to be all right. You're right here in sickbay, and I have you. No one's hurting you. You can open your eyes; you're all right."

I heard Deanna say, "He can't go on like this. We have to get Dr McBride now."

Beverly said, "It's all right, Will, I'm going to give you something for the pain."

"The pain isn't real, Doctor," da Costa said. "It's remembered pain."

And Jean-Luc said, "I don't care whether the pain is real or imaginary. Just help him."

I felt a hypo spray in my neck.

I opened my eyes. I was in a room, not the ICU, but one of the small private rooms off the main ward of sickbay. I hesitated to move, because I was afraid if I did, my head would start hurting again, but there was no real pain now, just a dull ache behind my eyes. My arms hurt. I tried to sit up, and suddenly da Costa was beside me, helping me up and propping the pillows behind my back. I recognised the strength of his arms; he'd been the one who had first held me when my head was hurting.

"Do you know where you are, Commander?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly mellow, with a small accent to it that I hadn't noticed before.

"Sickbay," I said. "Why have I been moved in here?"

"Dr Crusher was concerned that you were being over-stimulated by being in the open ward, sir," he said. "She thought you would rest better here."

"My head hurt, and she created a locked ward?" I asked.

"Sir," da Costa said, and he bent down, so that he was eye level with me, and I suddenly realised why he was assigned to me, why he was a medical crewman, and not working with Worf. "The door is open. There is no locked ward. Your flashbacks are being triggered, and, as of yet, we don't know what the triggers are. It's best to keep you in a controlled environment, until it can be determined just what you're reacting to."

"When my head was hurting," I said, slowly, "that was a flashback."

"Yes, sir," da Costa said. "You were reading and you seemed to fall asleep. However," and he looked at me a little grimly, I thought, "you were more or less in a dissociative state. Then the flashback occurred."

"I was remembering my head hurting," I said. "I heard you say that. That was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir," da Costa confirmed. "You were remembering the pain."

"But I don't remember anything else," I began, but then I said, "That's not true. I remember the smell of disinfectant, a hospital smell."

Da Costa said, "Do you smell it now?"

"We're in sickbay," I said. "It's not as strong, but it's there."

Da Costa was quiet for a moment, and then he said, kindly, "Would you like me to get Dr Crusher for you?"

"No," I said. "It's not the same, now."

"Would you like some water, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

There was a pitcher of water on the table, and he poured me a cup. He handed it to me, but my arm was so sore I could barely hold it.

"Here, sir," he said. He held the cup for me – I noticed that it was a cup, not a glass – and I took a few sips. "You're in pain again, sir? Are you sure you don't want me to call Dr Crusher?"

"I don't want anymore drugs," I said. "I feel so woozy as it is."

"Don't let the pain go on too long, sir," he said. "Otherwise, it will be overwhelming."

"Okay." I lay back against the bed and closed my eyes.

I felt him wipe my jaw and neck where I'd spilled some of the water, and then he pulled the covers up around me.

"Can I get you anything else, sir?" he asked.

I shook my head. I could still feel the ache, just around and above my left eye. "I should know you," I said.

"Sir."

"I signed your orders when you came aboard," I added.

"Aye, sir."

"You're Portuguese." I was trying to remember something, but it was eluding me.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Don't worry about it, sir. You need to rest."

"Haven't I got that treatment meeting to go to?" I was trying to stay awake.

"It was postponed until you're feeling better, sir," da Costa said.

I said, "We're at warp speed."

"Aye, sir," he agreed, sounding a little surprised.

I opened my eyes. "It's my ship," I said. "I know when we're at warp speed."

"Of course, sir," da Costa said.

I glanced at him, wondering if he was patronising me, but he didn't seem to be. Then I remembered him. "I was on the _Hood_," I said. "We were called to evacuate a science station near the Neutral Zone….That was you, I think. Your family. There was some sort of chemical disaster, and it was complicated by the Romulans….You must have been a kid," I said.

Da Costa said, "I was fourteen, sir."

"Your brother was injured," I said. "I remember that now."

"My mother," da Costa said, "would want you to know that my brother is fine, now."

I opened my eyes again and looked at him. "You're here because of that?" I asked.

He said, stiffly, "We pay back what we owe, Commander. It's a matter of honour."

"I remember that word, 'honour,'" I said. "I don't know that I have any, anymore. I was so concerned about it when I was younger."

He said, with some emotion, "You are one of the most honourable men I have ever met, sir."

"I've been an asshole to you," I said.

"Sir," da Costa said. "You are struggling with a difficult illness. You are used to command, yet you are being treated as if you were a child. I understand that, sir."

I was quiet, trying to calm what felt like an emotional storm rising in me. "You know this illness," I said, finally.

"Sir," da Costa said. "You need to rest."

"I'm tired of resting," I said, but I closed my eyes.

I heard Jean-Luc say, "Mr da Costa," and da Costa reply, "Captain, sir."

"Has he been asleep all this time?"

"No, sir," da Costa said. "He was awake for a little bit."

"You're doing too many shifts," the captain said.

"Beta shift is almost over, sir," I heard da Costa say. "I'll be relieved then."

The captain said, "Does he know who you are?"

"Sir," da Costa said. "He remembered when he was awake a few hours ago."

I felt Jean-Luc's hand on mine, and I heard him say,

"Will. You missed your lunch. Are you hungry?"

"No," I said. "I feel nauseous."

"I have him, Mr da Costa," the captain said. "Go take a break."

"Aye, sir."

I felt Jean-Luc sit on the edge of the bed next to me. "Move over a bit, _mon cher_," he said quietly.

"I'll fall out," I said, but I scooted over a bit.

"We wouldn't want that," he said, and I could hear amusement in his voice. "Do you want me to get Beverly?"

"No," I said. "I don't want any more drugs."

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"My arms hurt," I said.

"So I should get Beverly, then," he said.

I opened my eyes. "Please," I said. "I don't want any more hypo sprays."

"For now, then," he said.

I closed my eyes again, and felt him take my hand.

"Don't you have a ship to run?" I asked.

"I'm running my ship," he said. "My shift is over, Number One. I'm on call, now. You're not accusing me of not doing my job, are you?"

I could tell he was smiling. "Who's on the bridge?"

"Mr Worf," he said. "Is there a personnel problem we need to discuss, Number One?"

"Yes," I said. "You need a new first officer."

He was quiet. "Why is that, Will?" he asked seriously.

"Because I'm not going to get better," I said. "Not anytime soon. If ever. You need to replace me, or they will."

"Are you giving up, _mon cher_?" he asked.

I looked at him. "Sir," I said. "I officially resign my position as first officer of this ship."

He sighed. "I won't accept it, _mon cher_," he said.

I closed my eyes.

"You've never given up on difficult assignments before, Will," he said. "So why are you giving up on yourself?"

I said, "You can take this ship at warp nine, sir, and you can pick up this doctor, but –" I opened my eyes and looked at him, "I am not functioning. I don't see how I am going to be functioning. It would have been better –much better – if you had just let me die." I closed my eyes.

"Are we back to that, then?" he said. "I thought we had resolved that issue."

"You had," I said. "I'm tired, Jean-Luc."

"Jean-Luc?" I heard Beverly say.

He stood up, paused, and then bent over and kissed me on my face. "You rest, then, _mon cher_," he said.

I heard him leave the room, and then I was aware there was someone else standing near my bed. I opened my eyes and saw that it was da Costa's replacement, a crewman named Stoch. I could hear Jean-Luc's voice, low and  
insistent, talking to Beverly, and hers, slightly higher, with an edge of frustration, but I couldn't make out what they were saying, and, truly, I didn't care. He'd ordered the survey to end early; he'd ordered the ship at warp speed – probably four, I thought – en route to Starbase 515 to pick up this doctor, Deanna's specialist in PTSD. He hadn't sent a truthful report to Starfleet command about what I'd done, but their radar would be up and running with his actions now. True, we were close to the Neutral Zone already, with this survey, but Starbase 515 was much closer, and I didn't see how he could justify picking up an eminent specialist in PTSD coincidentally after the first officer has an unspecified and life-threatening accident.

It was better, I thought, still fighting the ever-present nausea and the dull ache behind my left eye, for me to just come clean. There would be a lull in the monitoring of me at some point, probably during the quiet hours of gamma shift, when I could make a simple report to Starfleet and offer my letter of resignation. Jean-Luc wouldn't get in trouble, then, and neither would Beverly or Deanna, for colluding with him and leaving the flagship without a first officer at the edge of the Neutral Zone. I closed my eyes, and tried to ignore the pounding of my head and the waves of nausea.

Someone was smashing my head into the floor. His hands were large, as large as half my head, and he was pounding me, face first, into a tiled floor that smelled of bleach and disinfectant. I could feel the bleach burning my nostrils and my eyes and my mouth, which was open, because I was screaming, and there was blood pouring down my face, and the copper smell was mixing with the bleach smell, and then I was choking on the blood that was streaming down my throat, and I couldn't breathe, I was screaming but I couldn't breathe, and I thought – when did I think that? – I thought, Jean-Luc, because he wouldn't let anyone smash my head, but I was so confused, it hurt and I wanted Jean-Luc because he could make it stop.

I felt Jean-Luc wrap his arms around me again, and for some strange reason I heard da Costa say, "Make him tell you what he's remembering, sir,"

and I heard Beverly say, "Deanna's on her way, Jean-Luc, but I think it's best to heavily sedate him."

"Will," Jean-Luc was speaking in a calm voice into my ear, "Will, tell me what you are seeing."

"The floor," I said, "there's blood on the floor."

"Whose blood is on the floor, Will?"

"It's my blood," I said, and I could feel there were tears running down my face and down my neck.

"Why are you bleeding?" He was wiping my face with something warm.

"My head," I said.

"Your head is bleeding, Will?" he asked.

"Jean-Luc, his blood pressure is too high," Beverly said.

I heard Deanna say, "The captain is right. He has to voice the memory. It's consuming him, Beverly. He has to talk it through or this will never stop."

"Help me hold him, Mr da Costa," Jean-Luc said, and I felt another pair of strong arms on the other side of me, holding me down.

"Listen to me, Number One," the captain said. He was using the captain's voice. "Can you hear me, Mr Riker?"

"Aye, sir," I said.

"Good. I am going to give you a direct order, do you understand?"

"Aye, sir," I said.

"I want you to tell me everything you see," he said. "Tell me about your head. Tell me why it's bleeding. Tell me about the floor. That's a direct order, Commander."

"Sir," I said. "The floor is tiled," I said. "It's grey, I think. With swirls in it. White swirls. There's a man – he's big, bigger than me – he's got me on the floor, and he's banging my head into the floor."

"Breathe, Will," Deanna said.

I took a breath. "It hurts," I said. "It really hurts. He's banging my head again and again into the floor. And I hear a crack, it sounds just like a crack, and there's blood coming down my face, from my head and from my nose. The floor smells of bleach. It's burning my eyes and my mouth. I'm telling him to stop – no, I'm crying, and I'm screaming at him to stop, but then there's blood in my mouth and I'm choking, I can't breathe," I said, "I can't breathe, it hurts –"

"Commander," the captain says, "you're not telling me everything. Why is the man banging your head into the floor?"

"I killed him," I said. "I killed him. I stabbed him, and he screamed, and there was blood, and then the man came, and threw me to the floor, and then he was banging my head."

"What happened after you were choking?"

"The doctor was shouting, and someone pulled the man off, and then they put me on a bed and I was being wheeled down the hall. I don't remember," I said. "I don't remember after that."

"You were in a hospital?" Deanna asked.

"I was on the unit," I said. "I was there because I'd been bad."

"He was there," Jean-Luc said, "because he'd walked out in the snow to try to kill himself. This happened when he was seven."

"You told me about this, Captain," Deanna said. "You said he wanted to turn to stone."

"Who did you kill, Commander?" the captain asked.

"I can't remember," I said.

He said, "I gave you a direct order, Number One."

"He's had enough, Jean-Luc," Beverly protested.

"He has my orders, Dr Crusher," the captain said sharply. "I don't accept that, Number One. You know very well what happened. Tell me."

"I don't want to," I said.

"Jean-Luc, please," Beverly said.

"He has to tell," I heard da Costa say. "He has to."

I was crying. "I didn't know it would be like that," I said.

"That's not an excuse, Number One," the captain insisted. "What happened?"

I said, "I went into the bathroom and he was waiting for me. The stylus was in my hand and my hand was in my pocket. He went to hold me and I stabbed him. I stabbed him in the neck and the chest and his arm. He started to scream and I tried to run away. I don't want to tell this," I said. "Please don't make me tell this. And then the b-tech came and threw me across the room and on the floor and then he was pounding my head in the floor saying that I'd killed him."

"Dear God," Beverly said.

"You should have let me die," I said. "You should have let me die."

"William," Jean-Luc said. "Look at me." He held my face up, so that I had to look at him. "You are remembering something terrible that happened when you were a little boy. Whatever happened then is past. It's over. It can't hurt you now, in the present."

Deanna said, "The memory keeps coming back because you didn't process it then, because you couldn't. But we can help you work through it now, Will."

"I don't want to remember," I said, and I couldn't help the sullen tone in my voice. "I did terrible things."

"Did you?" Jean-Luc asked. "So far I've pieced together the story of a very bright little boy who had terrible things done to him."

I didn't say anything, because the tone in the captain's voice was one that you didn't argue with. Beverly was checking me again, and then she turned to da Costa, who should have been off-duty but who for some reason was in the room with me. The other crewman – I didn't remember which one – was gone.

"He's dehydrated and his blood pressure is up," she said. "Get Ogawa to set up fluids. Captain," she said, "he's had enough. I'm taking over here. I want everyone out."

"I don't want to leave him," Jean-Luc said.

"Then stay out of my way," Dr Crusher said, "and let me take care of my patient."

"Of course," Jean-Luc said mildly, and he let me go and stood up, moving out of Beverly's way. "Can you treat him in here?"

"Yes," she said testily, "if you will all just leave him alone." She came over to me. "Will," she said, and her tone was very calm. "I am going to give you something for the nausea and the pain. I am also going to give you fluids. When you wake up, you should feel a little better, all right?"

I nodded. "I don't want to remember anymore," I said.

"I know, Will," she said, and I realised she was using the same voice she'd used when she was speaking to Wesley. "It will be all right, I promise. You just try to rest."

This time I was relieved when I felt the pressure of the hypo spray against my neck.


	24. Interlude: Five

Interlude: Five

Eventually Picard had retreated to his ready room, because he was still on-call and because the situation in sickbay was so tense. Beverly was furious because Will's condition had deteriorated so quickly, and while they'd gotten some useful information from Will about the nature of one of the flashbacks, it had been at a tremendous cost. The truth was, they were flying blind, and he would be relieved when Dr McBride was finally onboard. Deanna had promised that she would, working with Mr Data, attempt to find out what had happened to Will in the hospital in Valdez.

The idea that Will thought that as a seven-year-old he had killed someone chilled him to the bone, and yet he remembered that Tasha Yar had had similar stories from her own traumatised childhood. And yet the Will that he knew was a man who used humour to maintain morale and solve personnel issues, who had a way with children that Picard could only envy, and whose affable nature as first officer created a well-ordered working environment. That such a man could develop from a child who had killed didn't make any sense.

It had to be a mistake on Will's part, Picard thought, and he hoped that Troi and Data would find out the answers quickly. Will's mood had been deteriorating along with his physical health, and Picard was worried that Will was spiraling into a deeper depression.

He'd tried to work on the backlog of paperwork, most of it not urgent but all of it having been ignored since Will's suicide attempt, but he found he didn't have the patience or the attention span to do anything other than glance at the growing pile. Finally he'd moved from behind his desk to the sofa, and he found himself lying down. If anyone needed him – and he hoped sincerely that no one did – he would be easily found.

He heard the door chime, and he attempted to sit up before the doors opened. Worf said,

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir."

"No bother, Mr Worf," he replied, sitting up. "I thought I'd just rest my eyes for a bit."

"You should go to bed," Worf responded, "sir."

"I'm still on call, Mr Worf," Picard said. "I'll make it an early night, though." He paused, waiting for Worf to state his business, and then he said, kindly, "You needed something, Mr Worf?"

"You have an in-coming communication from Kyle Riker," Worf informed him.

"Yes," Picard said. "Patch it through to here, please."

"Aye, sir," Worf said. Then he said, "Commander Riker -?"

"He's holding his own," Picard said. "I'll let you know when he's well enough to receive visitors."

"Aye, sir," Worf said. He didn't say that Picard's request to speak to Will Riker's father had sent a shock wave through the senior staff. Usually, the captain spoke to family members for only one reason.

"Truly, Mr Worf," Picard said. "Commander Riker is in serious but stable condition."

Worf seemed relieved. "Aye, sir," he said, and left to send the communication through.

Picard went into the head and washed his face and hands. He didn't look at himself in the mirror, because he knew what he'd see: a man who was too old to be pulling all-nighters, with dark circles under his eyes and a pasty complexion. The only cure for the way he looked was sleep, and he had a feeling that sleep, after speaking with Kyle Riker, wouldn't be happening.

He sat down at his desk, and considered what he wanted to say to the man. He opened his padd and looked at the growing file of information he'd collected on Will, paging through hospital records – those he could access – and personnel files, as well as the notes accumulated by himself, and Beverly, and Deanna. His Academy records were there, mostly stellar, since he'd graduated eighth in what had been a highly competitive class. Education records from Valdez, with the ad hoc program that had been put together when the public school had recognised that they'd been dealing with an exceptional child. He should really, he thought, start putting calls through to the people left in Valdez, the ones whose names he saw over and over again: Martin and Anastassia Shugak, Gareth Davies, Maxim Demetrioff, Henry Ivanov. He glanced at the name Ivanov again, and realised that it belonged to a Starfleet master chief whom he had known briefly from his very first ship. Perhaps Ivanov was still alive; he could pull a few strings and find out from Starfleet.

He looked at the questions he wanted to ask Riker, and then put his captain's face on, firmly, when the call came through.

"Captain Picard," Riker said. He looked mostly the same, since the last time Picard had seen him, when he'd arrived to brief Will on the _Aries_. Older; his face a little more florid; his hair whiter. Picard could see absolutely no resemblance at all between this stocky man and his own tall first officer. Will was, apparently, truly his mother's son. Riker was a man known not to beat about the bush. "What's wrong with my son?"

Picard stopped himself from saying, waspishly, You tell me. Before he could say anything, Riker said, in an odd tone,

"Are you notifying me?"

and Picard wondered just what Kyle Riker had been expecting.

"William was in a shipboard accident," Picard said instead. "He was badly injured, and it was touch-and-go for about forty-eight hours. He has, however, begun his recovery. He currently is in –" and he echoed the same thing he had told Worf, "serious but stable condition."

"He's been injured before and you haven't notified me," Riker said. "Why are you notifying me now, Picard? What kind of an accident?"

"I think," Picard said, in a very slow and dangerous voice, "that perhaps you ought to allow me to ask the questions here, Mr Riker."

Riker didn't show any surprise at this change in tone. He was quiet, and then he said, "So it's started, has it?"

"Has what started, Mr Riker?" Picard asked.

"He is, Captain Picard, exactly the same age that his mother was when she died."

"And?"

"And I wondered," Riker said, and briefly Picard saw a flicker of emotion cross the man's face, "if this would act as a catalyst for Will's memories. What I mean is," Riker said, and there was absolutely no guile on the man's face, and yet Picard couldn't help but wonder how he could say what he was saying without any understanding of the horror of what he was saying, "Will has forgotten most of his childhood, primarily the years before he was ten. What he does remember is simply what he's been told, over and over, so that he has superficial memories and can tell a few stories, as if he actually remembered them."

"Like his going to kindergarten and saying his mother was still alive," Picard said.

"Exactly," Riker replied. "He was told that story so many times he thinks he remembers it."

Picard was quiet. He wondered if Riker even cared that Picard knew – at least a little bit – why Will had forgotten his childhood before the age of ten.

Finally Picard said, "I need information, Mr Riker. Critical information to help in William's recovery."

"So this was not an accident, then," Riker said.

"Why do you say that, Mr Riker?" Picard was not a violent man, but he was beginning to feel a spool of rage coiling in his gut.

Riker shrugged. "You've contacted me, when you've never needed to before. And he's done this before, once."

"When he was seven," Picard said.

"Yes," Riker answered. "What did he do this time?"

"I'm not sure you need that information," Picard replied. "I need to know what happened. I need to know specifically what his mother died of, and how she died, and if William was  
involved in her death in any way. And there are other memories which are coming to the surface. These memories are preventing him from healing. I need to know what happened to him, what the traumas are, so that we can successfully treat him." Riker's face was simply set, as if he were listening to Picard talk about warp coils or nanotechnology. Picard said, coolly, "I need you to be completely honest, Mr Riker, about your part in this as well."

"So you want my cooperation, to help my son," Riker said. "Does he have a diagnosis, Captain?"

"He does," Picard said, "but again, I'm not sure that's information you need."

"I am his father," Riker said.

Picard breathed slowly, thinking about the fathers that he had known; his own father, Jack Crusher, Miles O'Brien, Robert, his grandfathers. He uncoiled his hands and rested them in front of him, on the desk, so that Riker could see them.

He said, "I'm not sure I would use that word to describe you, Mr Riker."

"So you are judge and executioner, then, Picard?" Riker said bitterly. "What do you know about being a father or having children?"

"I know," Picard said between his teeth, "that fathers do not physically, or emotionally, or sexually, abuse their children. I know that as a son, and a brother, and an uncle."

"I have already paid for my sins, Captain Picard," Kyle Riker said. "I have paid heavily. I do not need to be judged by the likes of you."

Picard smiled. Any one of his crew, upon seeing that smile, would have wished to have been born in a different time, or a different universe; Riker's affect remained exactly the same as it had been.

"Mr Riker," Picard said in a low voice, "you will cooperate with me."

"Are you threatening me, Captain?" Riker said.

Picard smiled again. "I never threaten," he said.

Riker was silent. Perhaps, Picard thought, he was considering his options. Picard certainly hoped that he was. The rage that was still coiled in his gut was hoping for something else.

"What do you need to know?" Riker asked;

and Picard thought, oh, Will, how could you ever have been so afraid of this terrible little man?

"Tell me about William's mother," Picard said. "Tell me about Lt Commander Elizaveta Christianssen Riker."

"She was a good officer," Riker said. "I met her on assignment. She was brilliant at everything she did. She played the piano." He was silent.

"She became ill?"

"She caught a virus," Riker continued. "It was a routine away mission. Standard in every way. Sample collecting. She didn't even have to go, except that she always went on away missions. She said it was one of the reasons she loved space." Again he paused. "Did you ever meet her, Picard?"

"No," Picard said. "To my regrets. I heard many good things about her, of course. It was one of the reasons I picked your son's name out of the file of applicants for first officer."

"The virus was in the soil," Riker said. "It took only a year to destroy her, when we'd hoped she'd have had five. Her goal was to see Billy off to school."

"Billy?" Picard asked.

"We called him Billy," Riker said, "when he was a baby. She used to sing that song to him, you probably don't know it. Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy, oh, where have you been, Charming Billy." Again, Riker seemed lost in a world only he could see. "When Will went to school he told everyone his name was William, and that's what everyone called him. Henry Ivanov shortened it to Will. Eventually I stopped calling him Billy."

"Will gets his love of music from her," Picard said.

"They would sing together, in the kitchen," Riker said. "He was a baby and yet he could harmonise with her."

"It sounds," Picard said cautiously, "as if you were happy."

"She was dying, Picard," Riker said. "I tried to be happy, for her. It wasn't in her nature not to be happy. She loved Billy, and Billy adored her."

"One of the flashbacks that William has described," Picard said, "includes the smells of silver polish and cinnamon. He hears music. He keeps seeing blood."

Riker looked as if he had been punched. "He was two, Picard," he said. "How could he possibly remember that?"

"I am not a psychologist, Mr Riker," Picard replied. "Our ship's counsellor, Deanna Troi, has explained that William was attached to his mother. When she died, the attachment was severed. The trauma and the psychological problems stem from that."

Riker said, "She told me to bring him to the hospital to see her. I told her he was too young, that he wouldn't remember. I told her he wasn't sleeping, that he wouldn't behave. That seeing her would frighten him."

"Perhaps not seeing her was even more frightening," Picard said. "Regardless, the damage has been done. What is it that he is remembering, so that we can help him work through it?"

"It was Christmas, and she wanted a party. It was such a small thing to ask for," Riker explained. "She never asked for anything, other than that she wanted us to return to her home, and that she wanted Billy to be raised there, with her people. We'd decorated the house. Set up a tree, put candles in the windows. She'd been baking. And she was polishing the special spoons for the party. Billy was always her helper, no matter what she was doing. I had to go pick up the special cake she'd wanted. When I left, Billy was sitting on the kitchen counter, helping her polish the spoons. I'd found some old Christmas music, and it was playing. She was talking to him, and he was singing to the music."

"And?" Picard asked.

"And when I came home, she was on the kitchen floor, bleeding, and Billy was beside her, screaming and covered in her blood. It was the beginning of the end, Picard. She'd hemorrhaged from her nose. She went into the hospital, and she never came home."

"Had he fallen onto the floor?"

"No," Riker said in a flat voice. "She always thought about other people first. She'd had the presence of mind, even as she was bleeding out, to lift him up off the counter and set him on the floor."

"I need one more piece of information for now, Mr Riker," Picard said. "We will have to talk again, because there is so much you know, and we know so little. Will's memories come in the form of smells, primarily, and sounds. Most of them have to do with blood."

"He was hurt a lot," Riker said.

Picard drew in a breath. He was so glad the man was far away. "You mean, you hurt him a lot," he said. "Do not be disingenuous with me. You will regret it, Mr Riker, if you are."

Riker said nothing. "Your threats are empty, Picard," he said. "Nothing can be done to me that hasn't already been done."

"Your son is fighting for his life," Picard said, "and you expect _me_ to feel sorry for _you_?"

Riker said, wonderingly, "You love him."

"Yes," Picard said, and he was amazed at how good it made him feel to say it. "He is a man who is easy to love. He is kind, and generous, and brave. And he is dying, because the one person who should have loved him, didn't."

"What else do you need to know, Captain?" Riker asked, and he suddenly sounded old and tired.

"William was in the hospital in Valdez," Picard said, "after he tried to kill himself. On the unit, he called it. What happened there?"

"What does he remember?" Riker asked.

"He remembers someone smashing his head into the floor. He remembers blood, and pain. He remembers stabbing someone. He is convinced," Picard said, "that he murdered a child, even though he was a child himself."

"He stabbed a boy who was on the ward with him," Riker said. "I don't remember what he used. Something he made. The boy was ten, and Billy was seven. They were sharing a room, something that should never have happened. I was away, but I'd been notified that Billy was in the hospital as soon as Ivanov had found Billy in the snow. I was on my way home – and it happened two days before I was supposed to arrive."

"Why did he do it?"

"The boy was hurting him. Apparently the boy had suffered some sort of abuse at home – "

"As had William," Picard interrupted.

Riker ignored him. "And he was acting it out on Billy. So Billy stabbed him, multiple times. One of the behavioural techs broke them apart, and Billy was injured too. He was transferred to the ICU with a skull fracture and a broken nose."

"Because the man was pounding his head into the floor," Picard said grimly. "What happened to the other boy?"

"I don't know," Riker said. "By the time I got there, Billy was in bad shape. When he was well, I took him home. And things were different."

"You don't know," Picard repeated. "He's convinced he killed this child."

"That's not possible, Picard," Riker said. "Billy never hurt anyone or anything. He was defending himself. There were no charges, no police investigation. I'm sure the boy was fine."

"Things were different, how?" Picard asked. "You stopped abusing him at that point?"

Riker was silent. "I've given you the information you need, Picard," he said. "I think we're done here. Please update me on Will's status. Riker out."

Picard swore quietly. He'd made a mistake, allowing his anger to get the best of him. They still needed Riker's knowledge and his cooperation. Still, perhaps he could have Dr McBride speak to Kyle Riker about the abuse. He was a good diplomat, but there was no way he was going to be able to listen to Riker's justifications for raping his seven-year-old son.

He stood up from the desk, and stretched his aching muscles. He was so tired, and yet he knew there was absolutely no way he could go to sleep now. He thought about Will, and wondered if Beverly had given him enough to knock him out for the night, or if he was suffering, by himself, without even da Costa to stand by him.

Well, he wasn't one to dither. He closed his padd, and left his quarters. He'd let Beverly kick him out of Will's room once. He wouldn't let her kick him out again.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

When I awoke again, I didn't really know where I was. It was dark, but the kind of half-dark that is common on hospital wards, where you can see low lighting outside your room and you can just make out shapes in the darkness. For a minute I didn't remember which hospital I was in. I had to close my eyes and reopen them to orient myself as to where and who I was.

I realised that I was in sickbay, but that I was in the private room that Beverly had moved me into after I'd had the first flashback. I remembered da Costa, then, and I glanced around to see if he was still there, but of course he wasn't; it was the middle of the night. I wondered where the other medical crewman was, the one who'd taken over for da Costa at the beginning of gamma shift, the one who'd let da Costa take over even though he'd been off duty.

I closed my eyes again. I didn't want to think about da Costa, or about what had happened before. I didn't want my head to start hurting; I didn't want the nausea to return; I didn't want to think about what I'd remembered; what I'd told the captain.

But it was right there, on the surface, just like a scab waiting to be picked.

You have a picture of yourself, of who you are. You think you've got it fairly accurately, both your good points and your bad. You pride yourself on being realistic about yourself. You know you have your faults: you're too hasty to judge, you use humour as a mask so that people don't get too close, the persona you've created can be a little too over-the-top. You're sometimes, especially when you were younger, too easily influenced by persons with authority, or by ideas that can't really stand the bright light of day. At heart you're a tactitian, or perhaps, a simple pilot. You enjoy taking things on the wing, but you've grown to temper that with considerations for the actual crewmembers involved. You've killed, as a soldier, when it was necessary; when it was defence; when it was war. You've had to send crew to their deaths, but you haven't done it eagrely, and you haven't forgotten it, ever.

So how could you have forgotten the part about yourself where you killed someone in cold blood? Where you committed premeditated murder? How could you have forgotten that part of yourself?

It plays like a film in your mind. You can feel the stylus in your hand, the denim cloth of your pocket. You can see yourself drifting – and that's what you were doing, drifting – down the hallway, as if you have nothing better to do than to enter your room in the middle of the day. You see the look on his face when you walk into the bathroom. How can a child have such an old look upon his face, a look of anticipation, of lust? You feel his arms around you and you hear him whisper your name in your ear. And then you bring out your hand from its denim hiding place, and you feel the stylus cut through his skin just like butter, and you watch the blood pooling out, dark and red….

I opened my eyes and scanned the dark room. The crewman who was supposed to be with me was not there. The room was empty. I sat up slowly, because I didn't know how much Dr Crusher had given me, and I didn't want to fall. I took a couple of deep breaths, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. All of sickbay was quiet; it was probably after midnight. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and then had to grab onto the nightstand to steady myself. Only last week I'd been able to do anything I wanted; now I could barely sit up.

I stood up, my hand still resting on the nightstand to steady myself, and paused, swaying a bit, while I tried to get my balance. When I was sure that I could walk without falling, I let go, and stood in the centre of the room, trying to make up my mind. There were two possibilities, both of them viable: I could do what I'd intended to do earlier, which was to contact Starfleet and tender my resignation, or I could find something and end things the way I should have before. The first one was fairly easy; as I was sure the padd was still in Room 2. I could slip in there, since no one was around and be done with it, and go back to bed. Then it didn't matter whether I functioned or not; they could drop me off at Starbase 515 if they chose and let the doctor treat me there, and they could shove me out an airlock; it didn't matter, my life was effectively over anyway. I still didn't remember anything after having lunch with Geordi so that meant, it seemed to me, that I was in the middle of a flashback when I'd tried to kill myself. Well, I wasn't in the middle of a flashback now, I was completely rational, and that meant I could get the job done.

I walked to the doorway and looked out. The crewman who was supposed to be with me was sitting outside the door, but he'd fallen asleep. Since he was only working the gamma shift, he should have been wide awake; it was a personnel issue that would have eventually come across my desk. Since he had already abandoned me once, when he'd let da Costa help the captain, I didn't feel bad at all about making his life more difficult. Clearly he didn't belong in his current assignment.

I could hear Dr Sandoval and Lt Fisk talking in Beverly's office, and I knew there was supposed to be at least one orderly around, but I didn't see anyone in the main ward, other than the sleeping crewman, whose name I had forgotten.

I crossed the room quietly and entered Room 2. The padd was still on the desk where I'd left it; I guess, in the emotion of my falling asleep during the meeting and then having yet another flashback, Deanna had forgotten it. I turned it on and sat down at the table, thinking about what I would say in my report to Starfleet.

"Don't do it, Number One," the captain said from behind me. "Put the padd down."

I said, "But – "

He walked up to me and put his hands on my shoulders. "That's an order, Mr Riker," he said, but he said it softly.

"Sir," I said.

"You won't be able to overpower me, Number One," he said, bending his head down to my ear, "so just give me the padd."

"Why are you here?" I asked. "You should be in bed."

"Give me the padd, _mon cher_," he said.

I handed him the padd.

"Stand up, now, Will, and let's get you back to bed," he said. He'd tucked the padd under his arm, and then he wrapped his other arm around me as he stood me up. "Steady now," he said. "Do you want me to walk you to the head first?"

"You don't need to," I said.

"Since you are clearly without supervision at the moment," he said in a neutral voice, which belied, as I well knew, how he really felt, "I do need to."

He guided me out of the room, and I saw both Dr Sandoval and Lt Fisk come towards us.

"Do not," the captain said, "say anything to me. I am taking Mr Riker to the head. Then I am taking him back to his room. Once he is safely in bed – and supervised – I will discuss what has happened here. Not before."

"Aye, sir," Dr Sandoval and Lt Fisk said at once.

The crewman – Stoch, a Vulcan, I'd remembered his name – was standing at attention, clearly awaiting a reprimand from the captain. The captain, however, didn't say anything else, but walked me into the head, where he waited patiently for me to urinate and wash my hands and face.

"I don't need to be guided, sir," I said, as we left the head.

"I don't want you to pass out," he replied.

"I'm not going to," I said. "I'm okay."

"William, you're shaking," he said mildly, and I looked down at my hands in surprise. He saw the look on my face, I guess, because his next words were, after he'd said "Lights, thirty percent," "It's all right, Will, I'm not angry with you, _mon cher_, not at all. You don't need to be upset."

I realised that I was, once again, crying.

"William," he said, as he helped me back into the bed, "truly, I was expecting this, after what you said earlier. I'm just grateful you were choosing to hand in your resignation, rather than trying to kill yourself."

"I was thinking of that, too, Jean-Luc," I said.

"I know, I know," he said soothingly, and he sat down on the edge of the bed and held me. "You've been so brave, _mon cher_. I just wish that I could make you understand what's happening outside of these rooms."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You have no idea," he said. "We've kept you isolated, because you're so fragile, and so easily over-stimulated, and we don't know what's triggering the flashbacks. But, Will," he said, and he smiled warmly at me, "this whole ship is in an uproar. I can't walk down one corridor without being asked repeatedly how you're doing, when will you be back on duty, what can be done to help you. There isn't one person," he said, and he kissed me on the top of my head, "not one person on this ship that you don't know, apparently. I have no idea who these people are. But they have messages, and offers of help, and they want to bring food, and flowers, and who knows what else. There are cards, William – I think Deanna has them – from every single child on this ship, all of them handmade. And then," he continued, "there is our senior staff, who walk around all day as if each one of them has been personally wounded. Geordi, who despite the fact that I have talked to him, and Guinan has talked to him, and Deanna has talked to him, still thinks it's his fault that you're here. Worf, who is shattered, and who keeps wanting to personally guard you. Mr Data, who is valiantly trying to fill your shoes. The list is endless, Will."

"I don't understand," I said.

"What don't you understand?" he asked. "That there are people on this ship who love you, and care about you, and who want you to be well?"

"How can anybody care about me?" I asked, and it wasn't because I didn't believe him, but because I really didn't understand. "I've done terrible things."

"You only remember part of the story, Will," he said, "and we are working on finding the whole truth. But we'll discuss that in the morning. I don't want you upset any more than you already are."

I saw Dr Crusher walking towards me, and, as she stood in the doorway, she said, "Jean-Luc, what's happening?"

He sighed, and stood up. "I came back to see if he was sleeping, and I found him completely unsupervised. I would like, Beverly, to get him settled down, and then we can discuss what has occurred."

"All right, Jean-Luc," she replied, and she turned away.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You're both so tired. I'm not being fair to either one of you."

He crossed the room and shut the door, and then returned to me, sitting back down on the edge of my bed.

"I am going to handle this situation, Will," he said. "Quietly, so as not to upset you further. Then I would like to come back here and just sit with you until you fall asleep. Would that be acceptable to you?"

"You should go to bed yourself, Jean-Luc," I said.

He turned away from me, just briefly, as if he were trying to calm himself down, as he had done before, when he was so angry with me. Then he looked directly at me, and I couldn't read what was behind the intensity in his eyes. He brushed my hair, lightly.

"Will," he said, and he sighed. "Deanna tells me I should be patient, because you have 'trust issues'. Guinan tells me I should be patient, because you don't know how to love, having lost it so long ago. I understand that, or at least I think I do. But must you make it so hard for me, _Guillaume_? I would like to come back here and sit with you until you fall asleep. I would like to do this because I love you. Because I'm worried about you. Because I just want –" He paused, and then he said, "Because I just want to be with you. So – is it acceptable if I return to sit with you?"

I didn't know what to say. I felt my mind start to spin in about twenty different directions, until I was able to still it.

"Please," I said, because all I could think of was how hard it must have been for him – for him, for Jean-Luc – to say this. "Yes," I said again, and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.

"_Bien_," he said, letting me go. "We will give Mr Stoch a chance to redeem himself, and I need to speak to Beverly. Will you be all right here, then?"

"Yes," I said. "I won't add to Mr Stoch's burden."

"_Bien_," he repeated, and he crossed the room and opened the door. "Mr Stoch," he said. "You will position yourself, as Mr da Costa has been, next to Commander Riker's bed. If he needs anything, or if anything happens, you are not to leave him alone. You are just to press the call button, and one of us will be right there. Do you understand?"

"Aye, sir," Stoch said.

Jean-Luc waited in the doorway until Stock had positioned himself next to my bed, and then he said to me, "Just rest, Will. This shouldn't take more than half an hour."

"Okay," I said, lying back against the pillows.

He paused for one minute more, and then turned to Beverly, who was waiting for him, and I closed my eyes.

"Will? Are you asleep?" It was Beverly, resting her hand on my arm

"No," I said, opening my eyes and sitting up.

"Easy, Will," she said. "I'm just going to check your vitals before I go."

"I don't want to be sedated again," I said.

"I know," she answered. She ran the scanner and then she said, "You're doing fine. You must be exhausted, though."

"Not as exhausted as you and Jean-Luc," I replied. "What's going to happen with Dr Sandoval and Lt Fisk?"

"Oh, Will," she said, smiling. "You're off-duty, remember? The captain and I handled it."

"Shouldn't there have been at least one orderly?" I asked.

"It's been taken care of, Will, really," she said.

I nodded. Then I said, "Where's Jean-Luc?"

The door opened, and the missing orderly – or the missing two orderlies – entered with a bed, which they brought and lined up next to mine. Efficiently one of the orderlies made it up, and then followed the other out.

"He's gone to get what he needs," she answered, "since he's spending the night here."

"What's left of the night, you mean," I said. "He doesn't trust me or Mr Stoch, I guess."

"Will," Beverly said, and she sat down next to me on the bed. "I've known Jean-Luc for many, many years. His being here has nothing to do with not trusting my crewmen, or not trusting you either, for that matter. He loves you, Will," she said, "it's as simple as that. He's a man who doesn't love quickly, and he doesn't love lightly. You need him, and he will be here for you. That's who he is."

I said, "I don't deserve it."

"What, Will? What don't you deserve? You love him – that's obvious," she said. "You don't deserve to have the one you love, love you in return?"

I looked away. "I'm not good enough for him," I said.

"Will," she said, in that same voice she used with Wesley, "he thinks you are. And he is a man of sound judgment." She stood up, and then she said, "Will, I don't give this kind of advice very often. Let him love you. Don't fight him. He's a good man, with a kind heart. He won't hurt you, Will."

"But I don't want to hurt him," I said. "I'm fucked up, Beverly. My own father didn't even love me. I killed a child. I can't even function for a few hours before falling apart. He doesn't need this. No one does."

"You have an illness," she said, kindly, "a chronic illness, perhaps, but a manageable one. There are all kinds of disabilities, Will, and people learn to function and manage them and often overcome them. You may be temporarily disabled, or you may be permanently disabled – we don't know. It's early yet, and our specialist is due today. But would you deny love to Worf, or Geordi, or any member of this crew simply because of a disability? Of course you wouldn't," she responded. "So don't deny yourself." She came back to me, and bent over and kissed me on my cheek. "You're a good man, Will. Trust him. He knows what he's doing."

Jean-Luc came in, then, with his things.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"It's fine, Jean-Luc," Beverly replied. "His vitals are good. He doesn't want a sedative, and I don't think he needs one."

"Good," he answered. "So you'll try to get a few hours of sleep, then?"

"Yes," she said. "I will see you both later this morning." She turned back to me. "Get some rest now, Will. Don't worry about anything in the morning. Sleep as long as you can."

I nodded, and she left for her quarters.

"I'm going to change in the head," Jean-Luc said to me. "You're doing better? You still look upset."

"I'm not upset, Jean-Luc," I said. "I'm okay. Beverly and I were just talking, waiting for you."

"In a minute, then," he said, and left.

"Can you help me with this?" I asked Stoch, and he came over and helped me put the pillows back down. My arms were a little achy, not really painful, the way they'd been, but I was still having trouble getting things to work.

Jean-Luc came back in, and sent Mr Stoch back outside, gently but firmly, and then he shut the door. "Lights, ten percent," he said, and he took off his robe and climbed into the bed next to mine.

"Come here," he said.

"Will the beds stay together?" I asked dubiously.

For the first time in several days, he grinned at me. "I certainly hope so," he said. "I'd prefer not to fall on the floor."

I slid down in the bed, and then moved closer to him, and he put his arms around me. I put my head on his chest, and felt him kiss my neck and my ear.

"I've missed this," he said softly.

I nodded, not wanting to say anything, just wanting to do what Beverly had said I should do. He kissed me lightly, and then he said,

"You've made it almost impossible for me to do my job, William."

I was confused. "What are you talking about, Jean-Luc?" I asked. "What job?"

"Surely you haven't forgotten already, _mon cher_," he said, and I could tell he was smiling. He kissed me again along my neck. "It could be a lucrative one, too," he said, and now I knew he was laughing. "Imagine if I got paid by the kiss," and I could feel him shaking with silent laughter.

"You are incorrigible," I said, but I was laughing too, and then he was kissing me, and for the first time in days I felt as if maybe, just maybe, I could get better.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

After two surgeries, and three months total in hospital, William Riker was taken home by his father. The doctor who had wanted to diagnose William with childhood schizophrenia was encouraged not to, given that the boy had been actively abused on the doctor's watch, and William's diagnosis was left at severe depression, following multiple hospital admissions and a suicide attempt. The abuse that led to the hospital admissions – the various broken bones, the tearing in the rectum due to probable rape – was buried under Federation paperwork.

The problem that was William Riker was deemed solved.

William knew he'd been in the hospital, but the head injury and the trauma had left him without any conscious awareness of why he'd been there in the first place. He'd "forgotten" what his father had done; he'd "forgotten" his suicide attempt; he'd "forgotten" what had happened on the unit and what he'd done to Christian. The Federation doctor, after examining William, assured Kyle Riker that this kind of amnesia frequently followed a severe head injury and trauma, and told him that it would be unlikely if William would ever completely remember any of it. It would be more likely that William would remember pieces of it in dreams which would fade in time. This suited Kyle Riker, so he did nothing to follow up on William's head injury or his psychological state.

Riker was home about five weeks after William returned, during which he organised William's care with Tasya Shugak and Henry Ivanov, and re-enrolled William back in school under his specialised program. Gareth Davies was worried that William's injuries might have caused permanent brain damage, but after giving the child a series of intelligence tests, it appeared that he was still functioning in the high intellectual capacity in which he'd functioned before. Maxim Demetrioff organised the flying lessons, which took place on Fridays, in lieu of William attending school.

William's regular paediatrician recommended that William wear protective headgear when he played baseball or took Henry's judo lessons, but did not forbid either activity. William's routine was established. Spring was coming, and with it baseball practise; Henry Ivanov was teaching William piano and trombone; Miss Anna was giving him voice lessons, and Tasya Shugak continued to help him in the kitchen. Rosie continued to keep Bet at her house, and William was back to going over to see his dog twice a day. He continued to be friends with Matt, and Rosie, and Dmitri.

He took special medication to help with the anxiety and the night terrors and the bedwetting. It was felt by William's paediatrician that William would resolve these issues, given time and a routine. What Kyle Riker thought about these issues, he never said.

The changes in William seemed small. He was quieter, which was attributed to the medication; he was not as hyperactive as he had been. Perhaps, because of all the extras that had been built into his schedule, he was using up the extra energy with activity. He was still silly, but only sometimes. He still smiled and laughed, but there was a feeling of it not being quite real, something that both Mrs Shugak and Henry noticed over time. He was more serious about his work. He was intense about flying. When baseball practise started, he was intense about that. There was a drive to him that hadn't been there before. It made him seem older than he was, and this, coupled with his height, resulted in everyone treating him as if he were a much older child. He seemed to appreciate this, and, since almost everyone in the village remembered his mother when she was a child, inevitable comparisons were made. He was, it seemed, his mother's son, in intellect and ambition.

Kyle Riker watched this, and decided that he needed to take control of the situation. After all, William wouldn't be eight until August; allowing a seven-year-old this much autonomy was probably not a good idea, given this particular seven-year-old's history. Perhaps other people had forgotten that William had nearly drowned because he thought he was grown enough to go fishing by himself. Perhaps other people had forgotten that the suicide attempt had begun with William's refusal to simply walk in the school door, as he was supposed to have done. Kyle Riker didn't forget these incidents; he didn't particularly like the cool appraisal he saw in his seven (seven!) year-old son's eyes.

Kyle Riker was a Starfleet liaison; he had never been to the Academy, having never had the desire to go. As a Federation diplomat and troubleshooter he appreciated nuance and language and gesture. As a father, he ran his home as if it were the Academy itself. There were rules and regulations which were to be followed. If you said you would do something, then you did it: no questions asked. William had grown up under this military style; since it had been backed up by his father's unpredictable physical violence, William had rarely questioned any of the rules or regulations.

William had been home almost a month when his father decided it was time to reestablish his authority. William was working on a paper for physics; it was deceptively simple: Describe a wave to someone who has never seen one; who has no reference, visual or otherwise, to understand the phenomenon, having never seen the ocean or other body of water. He had fixed dinner for himself and his father, but then he had gotten distracted by trying to draw the cycle of a wave. He had left the dishes; he would deal with them later. His father had retreated to his study to work. It had gotten late, and William went to bed, leaving the dishes for the morning.

He was awakened by his father pulling him from his bed and dragging him down the stairs to the kitchen.

"We had an agreement, Billy," his father said. "I allow you to use the kitchen. You clean up your mess."

William stood in front of his father in his pyjamas and his bare feet. He glanced at the dishes that he hadn't stacked in the dishwasher, and at the counter that he hadn't cleaned. His father stared at him, waiting for his response. Waiting, William realised, for him to cry.

"My name is William," he said, "not Billy."

Kyle Riker's face never changed. "Regardless," he said, "of what you think your name is, we had an agreement, which you broke."

"I did break the agreement," William said. He watched his father carefully. "I will clean up the mess now. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"I'm glad that you're acknowledging this," Kyle Riker said. "You will clean up the mess. It won't happen again. And I will punish you, to make sure that it doesn't happen again."

William looked at the floor and waited for the tears to come, but for some reason, they didn't. He thought perhaps he would never cry again. He was done crying.

"You won't send me to the hospital ever again," William said. "You won't break my bones. You won't throw me. You can spank me, or you can take a privilege away. I don't care. But you won't ever hurt me again."

"And what makes you think that you can tell me what to do?" Riker seemed to be amused.

William said, "One day I will be bigger than you. And you know what I can do."

"And what do you think you can do, Billy?" Riker asked. He was genuinely curious.

"I can kill you," William Riker said. "And I won't even care. I'll just forget it, and everyone will feel sorry for me again."

Kyle Riker smiled. "We can play this game if you want to, Billy," he said. "You still have to live to grow up to be bigger than me."

"Go ahead and kill me, then," William said. "I don't really care."

"Oh, I don't think so," Riker replied. "You're too interesting, at the moment, to want to kill. What other rules have you decided for yourself?"

William thought for a moment, and then he said, "You won't ever fuck me again, either."

"Not even when you want it, Billy?" Riker grinned. He was enjoying this new version of his son.

William shrugged and looked away.

"Because you will want it, William," Riker said softly. "You know that you will."

William looked up at his father and his eyes were curiously blank. "I hate you," he said. "I will always hate you. It doesn't matter any more what you do to me. It will never change the fact that I hate you. And if she were alive she would hate you too, because of what you've done to me." He thought about stepping back for a moment, and then he said, "I made the dinner. You do the fucking dishes, or leave them for me to do in the morning. I'm going to bed."

He walked out of the kitchen and did not look back. Kyle Riker stood there and watched him leave. In the morning he introduced William to the martial art called anbo-jyutsu.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I felt Jean-Luc stir beside me, and then he kissed me, lightly, and said in a still sleep-filled voice, "Will, I have to get up now. You sleep as long as you can."

I opened my eyes and said, "Are we at SB 515 now?"

"We are in orbit," he said. "You go back to sleep."

He'd swung his legs over the bed when I said, "You're not going to leave me here, are you?"

He'd grabbed his robe, and he turned back to look at me. "Whatever gave you that idea?" he said.

He didn't seem angry, but there was a tone to his voice that woke me thoroughly. I sat up and answered, "I don't know. It's a medical centre. It would make more sense."

He was quiet, and then he stood up and put his robe on. "I'm going to shower," he said, and he simply walked out of the room. I heard him say to the crewman, "I'm taking a shower, Mr Stoch. You'll need to return to your post beside Commander Riker until I return."

"Aye, sir," Stoch said in a low voice, and he entered my room silently and stood next to the bed.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Fuck," I said. I started to get out of the bed and then I thought better of it. I'd have to wait for Jean-Luc at any rate, since there was only the one shower facility, and I needed someone to ask one of the orderlies if I could get some clothes. If Jean-Luc was determined to bring this doctor onboard, then there was no way I was going to meet him in my pyjamas.

Jean-Luc returned in about ten minutes and I could tell he was pissed off at me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed when he came in, dressed in his uniform with an absolutely neutral expression on his face. I sighed. He was really pissed off.

"What are you doing?" he said in his neutral "I'm furious with you but I'm determined not to say anything" voice.

"I was going to take a shower, Jean-Luc," I said, as mildly as possible.

"I thought I told you to go back to sleep," he said. He stood in the middle of the room and stared at me, that neutral expression still on his face.

The tone was back. "Is that an order, sir?" I asked.

"If you wish to take it as such," he said.

I wondered briefly what he would do if I threw something at him. "Sir," I said, and got back in the bed.

He stood there for a minute longer, staring at me, and then he turned around to leave.

"I love you too, Jean-Luc," I said, and I thought I heard Stoch draw in his breath. When I glanced at him he had that perfect Stoic Vulcan face on, but I'd heard him.

Jean-Luc was frozen by the door, and he said, as he turned around, "You are perilously close to being insubordinate, mister."

I was already in a shit load of trouble, so I decided to brazen it out. "I don't understand why you're angry with me," I said. "All I did was ask you a perfectly reasonable question."

"If I were you, Mr Riker," he said, "I would lie back down in the bed and be quiet."

"What are you going to do, sir?" I said. "Confine me to quarters? Send me to the brig? I know," I said brightly, "you can put a reprimand in my file, right after the part where you said I tried to kill myself." And then, before I could stop myself, I added, "Oh, I forgot. You didn't put that part in."

If I'd had a way to document it, I could have shown his model of self-control to the graduating classes at the Academy.

"You are being a child," he said, finally, "and I have work to do. If Dr Crusher asks for me, I will be on the bridge. Dr McBride will be arriving at oh-eleven hundred, and I will see you then." He glanced at Stoch. "You are not to leave him alone, not even for one second, do you understand me?"

"Aye, sir," Stoch said.

"I suggest, William," he said, looking back at me, "that you make an attitude adjustment before I return."

"Sir," I said.

He wheeled around with military precision and left the room.

"Fuck," I said again.

I was pretty sure I hadn't been this much of an asshole before this all started, but maybe I had been and was only just noticing it now. I felt completely out-of-control, as if I no longer had an internal compass to regulate my moods and so they were everywhere, all the time. I knew that wasn't true of before, because I've always been fairly easygoing, with really the period after the Borg attacks being the only time (well, and maybe the _Pegasus_, if I wanted to be completely honest with myself) I've dealt with issues like depression and irritability.

I sighed. I still wasn't sure why Jean-Luc was so angry with me, but it certainly was an inauspicious start to the day. I looked up at Stoch.

"I'm taking a shower anyway," I said. "And, unfortunately, you'll need to come with me, per the captain's orders."

"Aye, sir," Stoch replied.

I stood up, and went to find an orderly to get my toiletries, with Stoch following me. It was still early, not quite alpha shift, and yet Beverly was already in her office. I saw the nurse, Lt Fisk, and an orderly, and asked if one of them would get my stuff.

"Will," Beverly said, opening the door to her office, "what are you doing up so early?"

"I'm awake," I said shortly. "I'm going to go ahead and take a shower."

"I saw Jean-Luc leave," she said. "We both were hoping you'd get some extra sleep."

"Look," I said, "I know I'm easier to deal with when I'm asleep. But I'm not, so I'm going to take a shower and I'd like – " and I took a breath, to try to calm the anger that was threatening to surge forth, "– to get some clothes. These are dirty, and I don't want to meet this doctor when I'm in dirty pyjamas."

"He's not due until oh-eleven hundred, Will," Beverly said, but she must have seen the look on my face, because she added, "I'll send an orderly to your quarters to get your clothes, if you'll tell him what to get, all right? We'll do it right now, so that you don't have to put those back on after you've taken your shower."

I took a deep breath. "Thank you," I said. "I'm trying not to be a pain in the ass."

She smiled. "I know, Will," she said. "Why don't you have your breakfast now, while you're waiting for your clothes?"

"Okay," I said.

"In fact," she continued, "why not have your breakfast with me? It would be nice to have company."

"Did Deanna tell you I said you were being mean to me?" I asked. "I was joking."

"Perhaps," Beverly said, "but I have been impatient with you."

She called over one of the orderlies, and I explained where my clothes were and what I needed. I walked into her office with her, and Stoch followed.

"Would you see that Commander Riker gets his breakfast order now, Mr Stoch?" Beverly said, and then she went to her replicator and ordered a tea.

She sat down behind her desk and sipped her tea, and I sat across from her.

"Can you tell me about this doctor?" I asked.

"He's from Betazed," Beverly answered. "He's human, but he has a Betazed grandmother, I believe. His name is Alasdair McBride."

"Any relation of yours?" I asked, alluding to her Scots ancestors.

"No," she replied, smiling. "The Howards and the McBrides are not related, clan-wise."

"So that's how Deanna knew about him?" I said.

"She'd spoken to him before, I believe," Beverly said, "after we defeated the Borg."

"He specialises in PTSD?" I asked.

"He's written several books," Beverly confirmed. "He uses a combination of some very old treatments that he discovered had been used a few centuries ago, and some new therapies he's developed on his own."

The orderly brought in my breakfast, and when I saw the orange juice again I felt as if I were floating, outside of myself, outside of gravity. I could see the breakfast tray, I could see the orange juice, even the condensation on the cup, and I could see that Beverly was trying to say something to me, but it was as if I had been wrapped in cotton. I stood up, banging against the chair, and found myself backed up into the wall.

Beverly stood as well, and came around to me, but her face looked all distorted, as if she were yelling at me, yet I couldn't hear anything. I kept looking at the orange juice and I had the strangest sensation, almost as if it were alive, as if it were just going to turn into this – I don't know, this _thing_ – and I was trying to get away, but I'd backed myself into a corner, and Beverly was coming closer, and I didn't know what to do.

My hands felt as if they didn't belong to me. They were in front of my face, covering my eyes, and then I lost control of my legs too, and it felt as if I was falling, and I closed my eyes, but even with my eyes closed I could still see the orange of it, and smell it, that sharp, tangy smell, there were bubbles in it, like white froth along the edges of the glass, and I could hear a voice telling me to drink it, and I tried to push it away. I tried to push everything away.

Once again I was dreaming. This time I was little, or at least I felt little. There was a table, and the edge of it was level with my eyes. I could feel myself climbing up onto a chair. The chair had a pad on it, like a cushion, which sort of slipped when I climbed on, and I can remember almost sliding off, and large hands grabbing me, and holding me and setting me down on the cushion. I could see the cushion; it was a sort of a light green, with a pattern of something, of flowers, I think, and it was tied to the chair, and yet I could remember the sensation of sliding off, or almost sliding off, and of being put back by the hands, large hands, whose hands I couldn't see, but there was such a feeling of what seemed to be menace, almost, as if the lifting and setting was not a kind gesture, of preventing me from sliding off, but more keeping me there, on that cushion, on that chair. There was a feeling of something bad about to happen, and yet in the dream I was almost an observer, and I could remember thinking how could there be anything bad about to happen with just a chair and a cushion and a table. Still there was a pressure there, and it kept building, and I could see myself and I was myself at the same time, sitting on a slippery cushion, my legs dangling down, my hands resting on the table. I realised that there was something on the table, then; it was right in front of me, and yet I didn't want to look. I remember closing my eyes so I wouldn't have to look, and then the hands were guiding me to it, and I was crying, and trying to get away, and the pressure kept building, and the fear was increasing, and I couldn't see, because my eyes were closed, but the observer part of me needed to see, I needed to see what it was that was so scary, but I couldn't get the little me to open his eyes….

I woke, then, feeling nauseous and in more pain than I had the day before. I had no idea how long I'd been asleep, but when I saw Mr da Costa standing beside me, I knew that I'd probably lost several hours. The last thing I remembered was being in Beverly's office, but I couldn't remember why I'd been in there; I did remember that I'd had a fight with Jean-Luc and that I'd wanted to take a shower, but everything after that just wasn't there. I didn't know why my arms were hurting so badly again, until I looked down and saw that my left arm was rebandaged, and my right arm was bruised. My right hand was swollen, too.

I sighed, and immediately Mr da Costa was beside me. "Do you need some help, Commander?" he asked.

In a stupid way I was glad da Costa was back. For some reason he made me feel safe in a world that wasn't working properly for me anymore.

"I just wanted to sit up," I said.

"I'll help you, sir," he said, and he lifted me up and placed the pillows behind my back.

I closed my eyes, because I felt as if I were going to pass out.

"Sir?"

"I don't feel well," I said, and then I was puking everywhere.

He must have pressed the call button, because it wasn't but a minute or so before Ogawa appeared, and then an orderly.

Da Costa said, "Lieutenant, if you'll ask the orderly to bring wet towels and the Commander's robe, I'll clean him up enough to get him into the shower."

"I'll get a cover for the bandage," Ogawa replied, "and let Dr Crusher know what's happened."

"It's all right, sir," da Costa was saying to me. "I'm sure it's a reaction to the sedative and the pain medication. I'll get you cleaned up, and then you can take that shower you'd wanted earlier."

"I don't think I can stand," I said. "I still don't feel well."

"Don't worry about it, sir," da Costa said. "Djani and I will take care of you."

The orderly returned with the towels, and da Costa wiped me up and the two of them helped me out of the bed. Ogawa returned with the wrap for my arm and expertly covered it. I could have asked her, I guess, what I'd done, but there didn't seem to be much point. Whatever it was, my condition was getting worse, not better, and I hoped that Deanna's doctor would be able to stop my downward slide. It seemed as if it had been years – instead of hours – ago that I had actually thought I had a chance to get better.

Da Costa and the orderly Djani got me cleaned up, and I was able to put the clothes on I'd asked for earlier. I had to wait in Room 2 for my room to be cleaned, and, of course, da Costa waited with me.

"Will you tell me what happened?" I asked.

"This morning, sir?" da Costa replied. "You had another flashback."

"And I injured myself?" I was looking at my bandaged arm and wondering if I had tried to kill myself again.

Da Costa seemed to be thinking about what he wanted to say. Finally he said, "Stoch says you put up quite a fight."

"He was trying to take me down?" That familiar cottony feeling was coming back.

"Sir," da Costa said, and he came around to me, and then he sat me down, and then he bent down and looked at me, the way he'd done before. "Listen to me. You were in a flashback. You were, according to Mr Stoch, very frightened and losing control. No one tried to take you down, sir. No one tried to put you in a hold or subdue you in any way."

"Then how did I hurt myself?" I asked.

"Commander," da Costa said, and then, surprisingly, he said, "William. Stay with me. You're safe. No one is going to do anything to you. I'm not going to do anything to you."

I could feel myself losing it. "I just want to know what happened," I said, and while I was saying it I could hear myself sounding like a little kid, and I wanted to throttle myself.

The orderly Djani came in, then, and da Costa said, "Let me help you back in bed, sir," and between the two of them, they lifted me up out of the chair and placed me back in my bed.

Ogawa came in and took my vitals. "Dr Crusher will be right here, Commander," she said. "Would you tell me what number your pain level is at?"

"I don't know," I said irritably. "I don't understand why someone won't just tell me what happened."

"I'm sure Dr Crusher will talk to you, sir," Ogawa said soothingly, except that it only made me want to shout with frustration. "Your pain level, sir? On a scale from one to ten, with one being the lowest number – "

"Oh, for God's sake," I said, "I know what the hell it is. I don't want anymore pain medication. I don't want any more medication. I'm still feeling nauseous," I said, "and I'd like to know what the fuck happened."

"Commander," da Costa began. "Just tell the Lieutenant what she needs to know."

I felt defeated. "Fine," I said. "I don't give a shit anymore. Do whatever the hell you want." Then I said, "Six. It's a fucking six, okay? Just leave me the fuck alone."

"I'll let Dr Crusher know," she responded. "I'm sure she can give you something to take the edge off, Commander."

At that point I just wanted to throw myself at her. I said in a low voice, "If anyone comes near me with a hypo spray –"

"I'll get Dr Crusher," Ogawa said, and left.

"Don't say anything to me, da Costa," I said after she left. "That's an order."

"Sir," da Costa said, but he said it in a mild tone of voice.

I sat in the bed and waited for Beverly to come and yell at me.

I was not sleeping. I had resolved that there was no way I was going to go to sleep again and have that dream, the one that made no sense – how could anyone be afraid of a table and a cushion and a chair? – and yet I could feel it hovering around my eyes, just waiting to restart as soon as I closed them. There was so little that I could control anymore. In a week's time I'd gone from being the First Officer of the flagship, with over a thousand people under my command, to a shell of a person who couldn't even sit up without help. Who couldn't even function for more than an hour at a time. Who didn't even command enough respect anymore to be told the truth about himself, even if said truth were difficult. I'd been reduced to the status of a person who didn't even qualify for "need to know." When there is so little left that you can control, you control what you can – and I was doing what Beverly had told me – had ordered me – to do. I was resting, but I was not going to fucking sleep. Not with that dream lurking around my consciousness.

Despite my objections, she'd given me two hypo sprays, one for the pain and one to "calm" me, as opposed to sedate me. She added an anti-nausea drug to the mix, and then had left, telling me that she was meeting the captain and Deanna in the transporter room to welcome Dr McBride.

So I was laying here with my eyes closed but not sleeping, aware that Mr da Costa was standing right beside me, trying to avoid thinking about the dream, trying to avoid thinking about hope, and this doctor. I wished that I'd been well enough to have attended the treatment meeting, because perhaps Deanna could have given me some specifics about the doctor, but I hadn't even seen her today, although undoubtedly she'd been called when I had lost it the last time. In the past twenty-four hours I'd gone from suicidal to hopeful to suicidal again, and I didn't have any illusions about the chances of one doctor's ability to stabilise my moods and stem the tide of unwanted flashbacks and memories.

Because that's what this was, and I knew it, had been forced to admit it. All those years that I had no knowledge of, all of those memories that I pretended I remembered – all those blank spaces were trying to fill themselves all at once. The Federation must have truly felt it owed me, because how on earth could I have ever passed the psych exam for entrance to the Academy when I didn't remember half of my own life? The memory of killing that child, the flashback where I'd smelled silver polish, and cinnamon, and blood – those were real memories, not just stories I'd made up or other people told me so that I could have something to say when people asked. I used to live in dread, at the Academy, for the time someone would say, "Hey, do you remember what you did for your sixth birthday?" or your tenth, or even your twelfth, and I would just have to fucking make something up, and hope that I could keep track of all the bullshit I told. Because the truth was no, I didn't remember. Not much, anyway, before around eleven or twelve or so. I do remember when my father took my fish – that's real. I do remember my first solo flight, when I was eleven. I do remember when my dog Bet died. I do remember waking up one morning and realising that once again, my father was gone, only to slowly become aware that he wasn't coming back. That he'd left me for a more interesting job.

But the stuff that I was dreaming – the blanket around my face, the chair with the cushion, the fear – were they memories too? Were they flashbacks that I was dreaming, like when my head had hurt and I'd realised it was because someone was pounding me into the floor? Was my childhood really one long life of terror and that's why I'd forgotten it? What had been so terribly wrong with me, that I couldn't have had a mother who had lived, and a father who didn't hate me? I knew many of the children on this ship, like Miles and Keiko's daughter, or the twins that belonged to Sindal in astrophysics – how could anyone hate a little kid? What had been so wrong with me? What had I done?

"Sir," da Costa said, "are you all right?"

I opened my eyes. "I'm fine," I said, and tried to force my hands to stop shaking.

"Dr McBride is on his way," da Costa said. "I heard Dr Crusher let Lt Ogawa know that they were en route here."

"They?" I said, stupidly.

"The captain, sir, and Dr Crusher, and Counsellor Troi," da Costa said patiently.

"So it's a three-ring circus," I said, and I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "They're expecting him to perform miracles or something?"

Da Costa said, "Sir, it's okay to be afraid."

"Don't psychoanalyse me, Mister," I snapped. "I'm not your goddamned patient."

"Sir," da Costa responded mildly, and I wondered if I could just once, just once, smack him.

I heard the doors to sickbay open, and the commotion of the group entering. I sincerely hoped that they all weren't going to troop in here and act like I was some fucking zoo animal. In a few minutes, however, Deanna came in.

"Don't ask me how we're feeling," I said.

"I won't," she answered. "Beverly said she gave you something for the pain?"

"Against my wishes," I complained. "That seems to be the order of the day. Do whatever you want to Riker, whether he wants it or not."

"It's not good for you to be in prolonged pain, Will," Deanna said reasonably.

"It's not good to puke up your last three meals either," I said. "I've no desire to re-experience that."

"Prolonged bouts of nausea, and sometimes even vomiting, are symptoms of PTSD, Will," Deanna said. "I'm not entirely convinced that you were reacting to the medication."

"Whatever." I looked away.

"I'm sorry you're having a difficult day," she said. "Is there anything you'd like, while you're waiting for Alasdair?"

"Would you like the list?" I asked. I didn't comment on her use of the doctor's first name; Deanna, being who she was, knew absolutely everyone of any importance from Betazed. It didn't surprise me that she knew Dr McBride; I'm sure his grandmother went to school with hers, and I would be dealing with yet another member of Betazed's ruling aristocracy. "Why don't you just bring me a padd, Deanna, so I can tender my resignation? That would be a start."

"The captain told me that you'd tried to resign last night, Will," she said. "That's a decision I don't think you're prepared to make right now."

"You mean you think I'm too crazy to know that I shouldn't be first officer of this ship?" I said.

"Oh, Will."

I rolled my eyes. The captain walked into the doorway and said, "Beverly would like to talk with you for a moment, Counsellor."

"Sir," Deanna said. "I wouldn't worry too much, Will. You'll like Alasdair. He's a good man."

She left, and the captain came in. "Mr da Costa," he said.

"Sir," da Costa responded. He pulled the chair over so that the captain could sit with me.

"Why don't you take a few moments, Mr da Costa," Jean-Luc said. He sat in the chair, and reached for my hand.

"Sir," da Costa replied, and he left the room, shutting the door gently.

"Are you still in need of an attitude adjustment?" he asked. He folded his hand over mine.

"What are you suggesting?" I said.

"I made a promise to you, William," he said. "I gave you my word that I would not send you away. I understand that in your childhood there were very few people, if anyone, whom you could trust. But in the years that you have been on this ship, have I ever broken my word to you?"

"No, sir," I said.

"Dr McBride will be working with you on this ship," the captain said. "All the protocols have been worked out. He has a new study he's working on, and because we were one of the few survivors of the Borg attack, we are the perfect venue for his work. So there will be others that he'll be working with too, including Dr Crusher and Counsellor Troi."

I didn't say anything.

"Will," Jean-Luc said.

"I don't want you to be angry with me," I said. "I'm sorry, for this morning."

He sighed. "I know," he said.

I closed my eyes, because I knew it was unlikely I would get an apology from him.

"Would you look at me, please?" he said. He'd taken both my hands, as he usually did when he wanted to convey something of importance to me, and I tried to control the trembling in them as he held them.

"Sir?" I looked at him.

"I have two things that I want to say to you, before Beverly brings Dr McBride in here," he said. "We are going to have to negotiate the boundaries for ourselves between our professional relationship and our personal one, and I don't for one minute think that it's going to be always easy or perfect. And this is complicated by your illness, and my need to respond to your illness both professionally and personally." He paused. Then he said, "I'm sorry, _mon cher_, if I hurt your feelings this morning. It's very frustrating for me, when I know to myself that I have only your best interests in mind in everything I've done since I first realised the trouble you were in, and then you challenge my assumptions with worst-case scenarios. No – don't say anything, hear me out, please, Will." He sighed again. "You need reassurance from me, which is perfectly reasonable. As you said this morning, you'd asked me a reasonable question. And I responded as if you were challenging my authority or my ability to know what's best for you. So." He paused again, and then he touched my face, lightly. "The second thing I wanted to say is that the only way, I think, to solve this confusion is for me to be completely honest with you, and hope that you will feel, if I am giving you all the information – as I would when we have our briefings – that I'm not keeping anything away from you, that there won't be any surprises, and maybe we can build some trust together in that way."

"I was obnoxious to you this morning," I said, "but, Jean-Luc, it's because I'm scared." I could feel my eyes filling up again. "Part of me just wants to die, because I can't take this anymore, it hurts and I feel so goddamned useless." I wiped my eyes. "But there's a part of me that wants to get better, and I'm scared I won't ever get better. That I'll spend the rest of my life like this. And that this doctor is my last chance and if he can't help me, then I might as well be dead, because I can't do this anymore."

"Come here," he said, and he slipped out of the chair and sat on the bed, and pulled me into his arms. "You go ahead and cry, if it helps, _mon chou_. I'm right here."

"I'm okay," I said. "You said you were going to be honest with me. Please be honest with me, Jean-Luc. No one else is."

He let me go, but didn't leave the bed. "What I said about Dr McBride's work is true, Will," he replied. "Deanna had already been working with Dr McBride about this before you became ill. When we began to suspect what was happening with you, she contacted McBride immediately to see if he would be willing to speed up the process and come aboard, and he was. He has even given us specs to create a special treatment room for you, including a hyperbaric chamber, which is being constructed even as we speak. And I am taking my promise to you, not to send you off ship, seriously, because I have some understanding – especially now – why you are so afraid of being sent to a facility, as you call it."

"But?" I said.

"But," he replied, "Dr McBride is responsible for your care, with Counsellor Troi acting as your case manager, and Dr Crusher as your primary physician. I'm your captain, so I must act with your best interests in mind in that capacity, and, as your captain, I want you well. I need my First Officer, and I'm unwilling to give him up. And I am also acting in my capacity as – " and he held my hands again " – your partner," he said, "and, as your partner, I will do everything I can to ensure that you recover." He took a breath and said, "I've made it quite clear to Dr McBride how frightened you are, Will, at being sent off this ship, and why. He understands that it's part of a significant trauma. He understands that removing you from this ship could conceivably do more harm than good. But – as you said this morning – this is a medical centre, and he has everything here on site that could help you. If he says that it would be best for you to return with him to his centre, then I must consider that option. Even though at that point I would be breaking my word to you, and, perhaps, ending our relationship. I would do it," he said, firmly, "because it's most important to me for you to be well. Even if that means I lose you because of it." He was silent then, and he looked away.

"And that's everything, Jean-Luc?" I said. "There's nothing more?"

"No," he replied.

"Okay," I said. "I understand. Thank you, for telling me."

"Will – " he said.

"It sucks," I said. "I know it sucks."

"I don't believe that Dr McBride will use that option," he said. "We are building the hyperbaric chamber. But I said I would be honest with you."

"If you come to me, Jean-Luc," I said, "and you tell me that all the other options have failed, and that my only chance at recovery is going with Dr McBride to his centre on the starbase – if you come to me and say that – then I will do as you ask."

"I don't know," he said, "that I deserve your faith in me, but I will do whatever I have to not to lose it."

We sat for a few minutes, quietly, with him holding my hands. Then he leaned in and kissed me lightly on my forehead, and said, "I'll get Dr McBride."

"You really think this will work?" I asked as he stood up.

"I do," he said simply.

"Okay," I said, and he left the room to find Alasdair McBride.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Da Costa came back in, and retook his position next to my bed. He didn't say anything; he didn't even look at me.

"How the hell do you know so much?" I said, but my tone was light.

"Sir," he replied, and I sighed.

I'd thought that the three of them – Beverly, Deanna, and Jean-Luc – would bring Dr McBride in, but he came in by himself. He was a very tall (almost as tall as me), thin man, older than me but probably ten years or so younger than Jean-Luc. He may have been mostly human, but he had a Betazed look about him that I instantly recognised. I'd probably met his family at some point when I'd been stationed on Betazed all those years ago.

"Joao," he said in a genial tone of voice, "how good to see you again. How is Joaquim?"

"Dr McBride," da Costa said in a warm voice. "He is good. Married now."

"Excellent," McBride said. "Wonderful. I understand you've been working with Commander Riker."

"Yes," da Costa said.

"Good," McBride replied. "I was very pleased to hear that you were on this ship, and that the Captain had assigned you to Mr Riker." He came over to me and said, "Commander. I'm Alasdair McBride," and he offered me his hand.

I took it, and I noticed that he just held it lightly, before he let it go. "A little swollen still, I see," he said. "Dr Crusher said you'd broken it, this morning. If the swelling's not down by tomorrow, we'll need to take another look."

"I have no idea," I said. "I don't remember what happened this morning."

"Of course you don't," McBride said agreeably. "That's been your chief survival skill, hasn't it? What you don't remember won't keep hurting you and making it impossible for you to function. It's served you well, for you to achieve the success which you have. As Deanna has said, you are a singularly strong individual."

I didn't say anything. He took the captain's chair, and sat in it.

"I'm sure you must have many questions for me," he said. "And I'm sure you're conflicted about my being here at all. In a normal situation," he continued, "Commander, if you had come to me on your own, needing help, there'd be time enough to talk about the different therapeutic options, to discuss my program and how it might benefit you, and to slowly introduce you to myself, and my ideas, and my work concerning your illness. I would have everything that I needed to have about you, and we would begin the therapeutic relationship carefully. Very much in the way I helped Joao's brother," and he looked up and smiled at da Costa. "Whose life I understand you saved, which is why I was able to help Joaquim, and why Joao is here working with you."

"I wasn't aware," I said slowly, "that Mr da Costa was working with me."

"Oh, I think you are," he said. "Whether you've wanted to acknowledge it or not is a different story." He paused, and then he said, and his tone completely changed, "The thing is, Commander, that we don't have that luxury, to begin our therapeutic relationship in the way I just outlined. You have already tried to kill yourself once, and you are – as this morning proved – at grave risk to try again. Your body is exhausted from the recent traumas, and your brain – in an effort to conserve energy – is shutting down non-essential systems. Your flashbacks are increasing, both in number and in intensity. Your mood swings are rapid and unpredictable. In short, young man, you are in extreme crisis, and if I don't begin my program with you now, at once, you are at risk for not surviving this at all."

I was silent as I tried to understand what he was saying to me. In a way, he was confirming what I already knew, which was that I couldn't go on like this. That my condition was deteriorating. That I wouldn't be able to tolerate much more. That something was about to give, and that something would either be my physical self or what was left of my mind.

"I have been trying to tell Jean-Luc this," I said, finally. "It's not that I don't want to live – although it would have been a hell of a lot easier, and less painful for me, if I'd just been allowed to die – but I don't think I can. Not like this."

"Yes," McBride said. "I've been told that you are brilliant, and I can see that. But of course there was no question, Commander, of anyone allowing you to die. You are a valuable human being, to your friends and to Starfleet. And I'm not a pessimist. I want you to understand that I am very realistic about where you are in the course of this illness – you are in crisis, in a life-threatening situation – and I am very realistic about how difficult this illness is to treat. Especially in a case like yours, where the initial trauma is due to severe abuse, and then has been exacerbated by your repeated deployments in wartime situations." Surprisingly, he smiled at me. "But I'm never a pessimist, Commander. You're an intelligent young man. You have a wonderful support team. And my program works. It has a high rate of success. It's worked for others who have had the severest form of this illness, as you do, and it will work for you, too."

There was nothing to say to that, except that I didn't believe that what he was saying was true. In a way he sounded like he was trying to sell me something, and I could feel both irritation and dismay rising at the same time. I wondered if anyone had actually vetted this man. Then I remembered he had a personal relationship with da Costa, and that Deanna – and if there were anyone I did trust, it was Deanna – had contacted him, not the other way around.

"So," he said, standing up. "I understand you've been having problems with nausea?"

"Yes," I said.

"When's the last time you had anything to eat or drink?"

I shrugged. "Last night, I guess," I said.

"We'll see if we can't get a little something in you," he said. "You need your strength, since we're to begin today. Has he been taking fluids, Joao?"

Da Costa said, "Not since I've been here, sir. He vomited when he woke, and he hasn't had anything since."

"Well, that's not good," McBride said. "You've been having problems with dehydration as it is. See if you can't get him to drink something, regardless of what it is, Joao."

Da Costa glanced at me. "It's very hard," he said mildly, "Doctor, to get the Commander to do something he doesn't want to do."

McBride smiled. "I'm sure it is," he answered. "That's what makes life so interesting."

I could have sworn I saw da Costa roll his eyes. "I'll do my best, sir," he said.

I was beginning to like McBride.

"I've got your treatment meeting, Commander," he said to me. "So I'll see you in about an hour, and I'll outline our program for you then. We'll start your first session. See if you can't eat and drink a little bit, all right?"

"Yes," I said, "I'll try."

"I'll tell Gwyn to give you something you like, for once," McBride said, still smiling, "instead of making you eat all of that stuff that's good for you."

I glanced at da Costa, who was avoiding making eye contact with me. "I'd like a cup of coffee," I said, and I heard da Costa give a little snort.

"No doubt you're in the middle of caffeine withdrawal, on top of everything else," he agreed. "Joao, see if you can't get the Commander a cup of coffee. If he feels well enough to drink it, I doubt he's having problems with his stomach right now."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said.

McBride turned to leave and I said to da Costa, "I like it dark –"

And he answered, "Aye, sir. Three creams, no sugar. I'll let Djani know."

I'd had my cup of coffee, which had tasted wonderful, and discovered that having something familiar that tasted good – when had I stopped tasting things? – lightened my mood considerably. Da Costa was able to get some toast and a little bit of chicken broth in me, and he made me drink – slowly – a cup of water. He helped me to the head, but I was able to walk a little better, and, as much as I hated to admit it, having had the pain medication was making it easier to manoeuver.

I wondered what the treatment program would entail. Clearly da Costa knew, since McBride had treated his brother. I knew what a hyperbaric chamber was, but I didn't understand how this would be part of treatment for me.

I closed my eyes, not intending to sleep, because McBride had said he would see me in an hour, and I wanted to be alert, but then I was seeing the table again, and climbing up on the chair, and the green cushion was sliding off, and I was slipping down, and the hands were coming –

"Do you want him to talk this one through, Doctor?" da Costa said.

"We need to know what the trigger is," McBride responded. "If you could wake him up, Doctor."

I felt a hypo spray, and I opened my eyes.

"Sleeping is a major issue, isn't it, Commander?" McBride said kindly. "Night terrors, flashbacks, nightmares, waking dreams. It's hardly any wonder your health is not improving, when you need to sleep in order for your body to restore itself."

"All I do is sleep," I said irritably.

"But not the kind of sleep you need," he responded. "Thank you, Dr Crusher. I'll take over, for now. Let me talk to Mr Riker about his treatment plan, and then I'll start his first session." Both Deanna and Beverly turned to leave, and then McBride said, "Ask the captain to stay, will you? I may need him at some point."

"Of course, Alasdair," Deanna said, and she and Beverly left.

"Would you close the door, Joao?" McBride asked, and he sat in Jean-Luc's chair.

"Mr da Costa is staying?" I asked, remembering the fuss I had made before.

"Mr da Costa is on your treatment team, Commander," McBride said. "Yes, he's staying."

"But he's a kid," I protested.

"A kid who has more knowledge of my program than anyone else on this ship, including your counsellor."

Da Costa shut the door, and returned to his post.

"I'm going to start by calling you William," McBride said, "and you are free to call me Alasdair or Sandy, if you prefer. I generally go by Sandy to my friends."

"I'm your patient," I said, "not your friend."

"And a soldier," McBride said, "in a service that claims it is not military. Nevertheless, you may call me either one. I would prefer, however, that you try to stop calling me 'doctor' as we are going to have to become quite close, quite quickly, and we really don't have the time to go through all the trust-building exercises I usually use with my patients. Calling me by my name will help you accept the possibility of trusting me."

I didn't say anything. I was getting that feeling of being sold something again.

"It's a simple concept," McBride said, "but one we humans – and I'm mostly human, being only one-quarter Betazed – have a hard time accepting about ourselves. You graduated from the Academy in navigational and physical sciences, yes?"

"Yes," I said.

"Eighth in your class, if I remember correctly," he continued. "And you had early admission too. So you took the normal science course load, then, including all the biologies and organic and inorganic chemistries?"

"Yes," I answered.

"The brain is an organ," McBride said, "just as your heart and lungs and liver are. It's a remarkable organ, in that it has this amazing capacity to redesign itself after injury in the way no other human organ can. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a disease of the brain. It often develops from brain injury but it also causes brain injury. I approach your illness the way any doctor would approach an illness of the body, holistically, looking at your symptoms as they function as part of a whole system, and then treating your system, not your symptoms. To that end, we must heal the organ that is no longer capable of healing itself. Just as," he said, "if you were suffering from a disease of the heart or the blood, I would be treating both the organ and your whole body. In this case, I will be treating your brain, and in order to do that, I must treat your body as a whole."

He smiled at me. "Bear with me, William," he said. "Your attention span isn't long, I know, and this is elementary stuff. So, to start, I am going to treat you on a variety of different levels, using your entire treatment team. To begin with, we start with the very basics. Oxygen, nutrition, and sleep. PTSD prevents you from achieving optimal levels of the very basic elements you need to survive. You are suffering from chronic oxygen deprivation. In fact, I can hear right now that you are not breathing properly, and so are receiving insufficient oxygen for you to function. With your physical therapist, you will begin a breathing program. I will also be using the hyperbaric chamber, which your friend Mr LaForge has constructed, to raise the oxygen levels of your brain. Working with your nutritionist, I am outlining the nutrients and supplements that your body needs to heal your brain and improve your sleep. Lastly, with Deanna, we will be working together to help you regain normal sleep, so that your body has the time to heal itself."

I thought for a minute and then I said, "Okay. I understand this, mostly. But how does this stop the flashbacks and everything else?"

"The flashbacks are symptoms, William," he said patiently. "Symptoms of an illness, just as a runny nose is a symptom of a cold. We restore the brain, and with it, your body, to health. That's the first step. Some of your symptoms will be alleviated by that. The night terrors, for example, which are currently being somewhat controlled by medication, will be alleviated by the program I've just outlined, as they are neurological symptoms of a distressed – and disordered – brain."

"Disordered?" I echoed.

"Deanna told me that she ran some of the preliminary function tests," McBride said.

"You mean the words and memory tests she gave me?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Mr da Costa and I will be running further tests along those lines. You have suffered traumatic brain injury, as the tests indicated. Your functioning is impaired. It's only because you have adapted to your repeated injuries so many times that you function at all. Your brain, if I may say so, William, is truly remarkable."

"You mean when I was a child?" I was feeling very uncomfortable.

"We can start with the childhood injuries," McBride agreed. "I've gone over some of the information that Captain Picard has collected, including the new information he received from your father. But you also – "

"Stop," I said. "Just stop."

He did.

"Commander?" da Costa said softly.

"When did the captain speak to my father?" I said.

"Yesterday, I believe," McBride replied. "Your father – "

"Shut up," I said. "Why wasn't I told that he was going to speak to my father? Why didn't he tell me he spoke to my father?"

"William," McBride said. "I am sorry if you are upset that Captain Picard contacted your father. It was on my instructions, as well as based on his own need for information. It was an agreed-upon course of action by your treatment team. If he didn't tell you he was going to do this, it's because he had a reason not to. Do not hijack your treatment this way, as it will not help you."

"Don't speak to me as if I'm a child," I said. "I'm not a child. And I deserve honesty in my so-called treatment. The captain said he would be honest with me, not an hour ago, and now I find out that he has spoken to my father behind my back."

"I think we'll take a break now," McBride said, finally. "You are, obviously, feeling overwhelmed."

"I'm feeling ganged up on," I said. "That's what I'm feeling."

McBride said, "I could assure you, William, that that is not the case, but I doubt you would believe me at this moment. You need a break, to process all the information you've been given, including the information about your father. Perhaps Mr da Costa will get you something to drink, and give you a chance to move around, exercise a bit."

"Mr da Costa is not allowed to leave me alone," I said. "Per the captain's orders."

"Of course. I'll send in an orderly, then."

He left, leaving the door open. Within a minute the orderly Djani came in with a new cup of water, which I waved away.

"Would you like to go to the head, sir?" da Costa asked.

"Given my current feelings about the captain," I said, "that's probably not a good idea."

"Sir," da Costa answered. "You should drink the water, though."

"Oh, fuck you," I said.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, without da Costa's help. I waited a moment, to see if I felt dizzy, and when I didn't, I stood up. My back was sore and tight from being in the bed for so long, and my arms were starting to hurt again.

"Some simple stretches might help," da Costa said.

"If you say one more thing to me," I told him, "I will take you down."

Wisely he said nothing, as, considering the state of my arms, that scenario was unlikely. Still, it felt good to tell him that. I went ahead and did a few stretches, though, as that had been my intent, and then I drank some of the water on my own.

And then I felt like a complete child. As in, no, I don't want to go to bed, and then, five minutes later, crying because you're so tired. I sighed. I sat back down, but in the chair, and stretched my legs.

I did need to go to the head, but I was afraid that if I saw Jean-Luc I would behave badly, and I was so confused by what McBride had said and by what Jean-Luc had promised me that it was better to avoid the situation.

I understood the part about treating me holistically, and about repairing my brain, and I was sure there would be more information given to me concerning nutrition and oxygen deprivation, and how the hyperbaric chamber treatments would work. I wasn't sure how Deanna's simple tests could show that my brain was injured, but Deanna always did her homework, so I could trust that to be true as well. As for my brain injury, four weeks ago I'd come in here after falling in the holodeck with a concussion, one of the series of injuries that had caused Dr Crusher to notify the captain that there was a problem. And the memory that I had recalled – the one where I killed that boy whose name I still didn't remember – had started with my head hurting, because I was being pounded into a tiled floor. Since I'd been bleeding in that memory, undoubtedly I had sustained a head injury there too.

So I could understand that. But why had Jean-Luc told me there wasn't anything else I needed to know, when he'd spoken to my father yesterday? He'd said he'd give me all the information I needed, and yet here was a glaring example of that not being so. Unless, of course, he was still relegating me to "need to know." I had to think through this logically, if I was going to be able to tolerate McBride and his session. And logically was not something I was particularly good at, at the moment. I took a couple deep breaths, to try to let go of the anger – and hurt. I was hurt. He'd told me he'd be honest, and he'd lied, and it hurt.

I tried to recall what he'd said to me. Something about us having to negotiate where our professional and personal boundaries began and ended, if we were going to continue to have a relationship. And then he was telling me about Dr McBride, and his treatment program, and whether I could be treated here on the ship, as he'd promised I would be, but that if McBride said I couldn't be treated here, then he'd defer to McBride and I'd be sent to his centre on SB 515.

Jean-Luc was methodical and logical. Had he merely meant that he was going to be honest about my being treated by Dr McBride, and that didn't include the fact that he'd talked to my father? I supposed it was possible, but it beggared the point. How could you be honest about one thing, and not about another?

"Perhaps," da Costa said quietly, "in the face of everything that has happened over the past twenty-four hours, sir, the captain simply forgot."

"I thought I told you not to speak to me," I said.

He came around to me, and bent down again so that he was making eye contact with me. "You love him, yes?" he said.

"That's none of your business, mister," I answered.

"You frightened him, when he found you trying to resign, because you'd had the opportunity to kill yourself when you were alone. Then you had the flashback this morning, and you injured yourself again. You both hold yourselves to impossibly high standards," da Costa said. "And unreasonably so. It's reasonable that he meant to tell you, but it got lost in more important things, such as making sure you were safe, and that you understood Dr McBride's program."

"Shut up," I said. "I won't tell you again."

"Part of loving someone is forgiving them," da Costa finished, and he turned around and went back to his post.

"Oh, fuck you," I said, but I didn't mean it.

Jean-Luc stood in the doorway. "Mr da Costa," he said.

"Sir," da Costa answered.

"Give us a moment," he said.

"Aye, sir."

Da Costa left, and Jean-Luc shut the door.

"We seem to have spent this entire day on the wrong foot," he said, looking at me.

I felt like a sullen child. "You said you would be honest with me."

"Mère de Dieu," he said, but he didn't move away from the door. "Are you going to throw something at me?" he asked. "Or can I come near you?"

"You're not funny," I said. Then I said, "I don't think I could throw anything, anyway."

"Your arms hurt again?" he said, walking over to me.

I shrugged. "I asked you," I said, "if there were anything else, and you said no."

He sighed. "Your father has information we need," he said. "William. It was a judgment call that I made after your flashback, the first time you had it."

"When did you speak to him?"

"Yesterday, late in the evening, before I came in to you," he answered. "The call came through. I told him you'd had an accident and that we needed information." He paused. "He'd been expecting me to call."

I looked up at him. "Why?"

"He thought that your being the same age as your mother was when she died might make you remember. He knew right away what you'd tried to do. As I said, he was expecting it."

"When you came in to me last night, you didn't say anything," I said.

"William, I found you trying to resign," he replied. "That was hardly the time or the place."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"When Dr McBride thought you would be able to handle it," he said.

"Goddamn it," I said.

"Will." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Let's start again, shall we?"

I was tired of feeling like a recalcitrant child, but I didn't know how else to feel.

"I have spoken with your father," he said. "He has information that we need. He was able to help with two of your flashbacks. It was not," he said, "a very pleasant experience. I am afraid that I have made your father's cooperation more difficult. However, Dr McBride has agreed to talk with him, for further information."

I said, "How did you make his cooperation more difficult? Why is he even cooperating?"

"I could not," Jean-Luc said, "contain my anger. He took offense. Why wouldn't he cooperate? He apparently enjoyed the attention."

I knew then, why he hadn't told me. He knew more than I did; what my father had done. Why I couldn't remember. Why I couldn't function.

"You're protecting me," I said in a surprised voice.

"I love you," he said simply. He reached out for my hand, and I let him hold it. "Can I tell the doctor you're ready to continue?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

He stood up, and then he bent down and kissed me. I let him hold me.

"I forget," I said. "I don't know why, but I do."

"I'll come in every hour and hold you, then," he said, smiling, "so you won't."

"Please," I said. "I don't want to forget anymore."

"I'll get Dr McBride," he said, letting me go.

I sighed. "I don't want to do this," I said. "I don't think I'm going to like his session."

"I won't leave you, _mon cher_," Jean-Luc said. "I'll be in Beverly's office, in case you need me."

I wanted to ask him about the ship, but I knew that the ship would be fine. It was time to stop making excuses. Time to just let him take care of me.

"Yes," I said.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's Note: Will's first memory retrieval session with Dr McBride. Please do not read this chapter if you are susceptible to triggers. Please read my notes in my profile.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dr McBride entered the room, with the same genial attitude he'd had as before, as if I hadn't been such an asshole.

"Did you work things out with your captain?" he asked.

I looked at him suspiciously. "Yes," I said.

"Good," he replied. "The way this is going to work, William, is probably different from what you've ever experienced before, although Joao tells me that he and your captain did talk you through one flashback yesterday."

"Yes," I said cautiously. That was something I didn't want to think about.

"I assume you've had some therapeutic sessions with Deanna," he continued.

"Over the course of my assignment here, yes," I said. "Particularly after the Borg."

"Yes," he agreed. "That was when Deanna first contacted me about my work. Obviously, she was concerned about the crew as a whole, but she was especially concerned about you and Captain Picard. What we are going to do here, William, has very little to do with a traditional talk therapy session. We are specifically looking for the trigger of the flashback that you had this morning, the one that you had again as soon as you feel asleep a little while ago. Once we identify the trigger, we are going to explore the memory. In a flashback, you feel as if you are reliving or re-experiencing the trauma. You feel frightened; you feel threatened; it may be, in fact, that within that particular trauma, your life was in danger. I know that the flashback you were helped through yesterday was one in which you were physically and emotionally damaged." He paused.

I sighed, and looked down. "I don't want to do this," I said.

"Of course you don't," he responded. "Who would? The whole reason why you've forgotten these memories is because they cause you so much pain."

"Then why are you going to make me go through it again?" I asked.

He reached out and took my hand. "But I'm not going to do that, William," he said. "You are not well enough to integrate these memories. Your body is failing. Your brain is shutting down. Re-experiencing the traumas that are torturing you – and I'm not going to sugar coat this, William – that's what you've been experiencing – is not going to help you at all. In the worst case scenario, it could permanently damage you, if not kill you. Captain Picard and Joao took a calculated risk in talking you through the flashback yesterday, but they did it because you were in extreme distress. Nevertheless, it did a considerable amount of damage to your system. Dr Crusher was right to be very concerned."

"I don't understand, then," I said.

"We are going to find the trigger," McBride explained calmly. "This will likely cause a flashback, but one that we are going to control. The first thing I am going to have you do is work with Deanna on your breathing and relaxation exercises. You've done this before with Deanna, haven't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good, so you should have very little resistance to it, then," he said. "I understand that you and Deanna are close."

"I was stationed on Betazed," I said. "We're good friends."

"And you trust her?"

"Implicitly," I said.

"Good. You've been working with many of the members of your treatment team for a long time, which is wonderful, as there's already trust there. It will make my work so much easier, since it's going to be hard for you to trust me. So," he continued. "Breathing. The next step is to discover the trigger. Joao has suggested it has something to do with mealtimes, and after seeing what happened earlier, I'm inclined to agree. You had a flashback after receiving your breakfast this morning. You were upset over your breakfast yesterday. You were upset when you were having dinner with the captain. You had a flashback and attempted suicide after having lunch with your friend Mr LaForge. You are not eating. You are suffering from dehydration. Clearly mealtimes are a source of extreme anxiety for you."

I didn't say anything, because it was hard not to see it, when he'd laid it out in that fashion. Still, it didn't make much sense to me. I enjoy food. I like cooking. And I've not had a problem with eating before, unless the fact that I now need to watch my weight counts as a problem.

"What we will do, William," he continued, "is recreate your breakfast of this morning, one item at a time. When the trigger is revealed, I am going to guide you through the memory. You will not have a flashback. You will not be in the memory, but watching the memory, as if it were a recreated story for you. You will not feel anything at all. Instead, you will merely describe to me what you see. We will build a metaphorical wall between you and your memory. In that way, you will be protected."

I was back to wondering if anyone had really vetted this guy, regardless of Deanna's involvement. Metaphorical wall my ass.

"How do you propose to do that?" I asked.

He smiled. "I am merely going to suggest to you that we build this wall together," he said. "It isn't hard. I understand you're sceptical now, but it will make sense to you."

He stood up, but then he said, "There was one more thing that I needed to ask you, William."

"Yes?" I said.

"You are close to Deanna, but I'm thinking that you are closest to your captain. Is that correct?"

"What are you asking?" I wasn't sure where this was heading.

"I am asking," McBride said, calmly, "William, if you and the captain are in a relationship."

"Why do you need to know that?" I asked.

I had to hand it to McBride. He wasn't impatient at all. He said, still calmly, "You have no family onboard the ship, right? You are an only child. Your mother died when you were two, and your father is a source of great anxiety for you. I usually like to have my patients surrounded by the people they trust and love. If you are in a relationship with your captain – if he is the person that you are closest to – then he needs to be here, with you, as a participant. He will be providing you with support, physically and emotionally."

"What do you mean, physically?"

Da Costa said, "Commander."

I sighed. "Yes," I said. "Jean-Luc has already said he would be here, if I needed him."

"Good. Let's get Deanna in here, so she can start the program." He left the room.

Deanna came in, and with her the orderly, first bringing in one of the chairs from Room 2, and then bringing in what looked like a Betazed-style loveseat, like the kind Deanna's mother had in her conservatory, lower to the ground and constructed with material that was meant to retain and reflect warmth.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"You and the captain," she answered. "Alasdair will explain it, I'm sure. You and I are going to go through some breathing exercises, just as we did before, Will."

She wasn't exactly short with me, but she was in her professional mode, and looking at her face, I could see that she was under some sort of strain, and I wondered if it was because my emotions had been all over the place, and if I was wearing her out.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She smiled, then, and said, "I'm fine, Will, really." She turned the captain's chair so that it was facing hers and said, "Okay, out of bed, and into the chair, just as before. Feet flat on the ground, hands on your knees. Sit up straight, Will."

I did as she asked, and we went through the breathing exercises that we'd done before I'd taken those tests with her. Then she went over a grounding exercise, just a mild one, getting me to feel each limb, each muscle, and release and relax. She had me close my eyes, and then we did an old exercise that she'd had me do after the Borg, asking me to relocate my safe place, and then to go there in my mind, reviewing what it looked like, concentrating on how it felt and what I heard. There was a place that I used to salmonberry and blueberry picking as a child, and I'd chosen that as my safe place, and so I pictured it in my mind, choosing salmonberry season, and imagining that the berries were almost ripe, hearing the buffleheads swimming in the water, watching the dappled light play over the leaves of the bushes.

"That's it," she was saying, "just breathe, breathe in and breathe out, good. You're doing fine, Will."

I could feel myself relaxing, could feel my breathing evening out.

"How is he doing?" I heard McBride say.

"He's fine," Deanna answered. "Relaxed. Breathing well."

"Good," he said. "Will, leave your safe place now, and open your eyes."

I did, reluctantly.

"Joao, if you can help William onto the couch," McBride said, and I was being guided by da Costa from the chair over to the Betazed couch.

The cushions were firmer than the ones that Deanna's mother used, but made of the same material; as soon as I sat down I could feel my own body heat start to radiate up underneath me. The firmer cushions were designed so that I had to sit up straight, and the angle was such that I could slide back and my lower back was completely supported, with my feet still flat on the floor. It was not an uncomfortable position, but it was not a normal one either.

McBride took the captain's chair and sat in it, and angled it closer to me by a bit, but away from the centre of the room. Da Costa moved Deanna's chair over to the other side of the couch, and the orderly came in with two more chairs, which were seated somewhat behind Deanna's chair and the couch. The orderly moved the beds back a bit, more towards the wall. Beverly came in, then, followed by Jean-Luc.

"If you'll sit beside Will, Jean-Luc," McBride said.

I opened my mouth to say something – who was he to call the captain by his name? I wondered – but I was distracted by Jean-Luc sitting beside me, and sliding one arm behind my back, so that his hand was resting on my hip, and then he held my hand.

"Of course you know your treatment team," McBride said. "Dr Crusher will be monitoring your vital signs; Deanna is here to monitor your anxiety levels. Joao will be recreating your breakfast from this morning. Jean-Luc is here as family, to provide you with emotional and physical support." McBride paused and then said, "He is here as Jean-Luc, not the captain."

"Breathe, Will," Deanna said, and I breathed.

"You're probably wondering why the furniture is arranged in this way," McBride continued, "and it's simply because we're going to create the wall, to separate you from what Joao will be bringing in, and we need to keep the door on the other side of the wall."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, primarily because Jean-Luc lightly but pointedly squeezed my hand. I remembered to breathe, so that Deanna wouldn't have to remind me.

"Joao, if you'll go get the first item," McBride said. "William, the wall is made of a very thick clear polymer. You can see through it, but you cannot go through it. It begins at the doorway, and it ends right over here," and he turned and pointed to the wall on the other side of the nighttable. "We're going to keep Joao on the other side of the wall for now, but he can cross through where Dr Crusher is standing. The door – the door through the wall – is there."

I concentrated on breathing, because a part of me was ready to just say fuck everything and laugh. This was patently ridiculous, and it was fairly clear to me that we were taken in – not the first time, either, I'd remembered on several missions where we were supposed to meet eminent scientists who turned out to be just plain nuts. Jean-Luc leaned into me, and said in a low voice,

"Just give this a chance, _mon cher_."

I sighed.

"When Joao brings the first item in, Will," McBride said, "I want you to look through the wall and just describe what you see. Are you ready?"

I nodded.

"Bring it in, Joao," McBride said, and Joao came in carrying the tray table from Beverly's office.

This was going to be a long, long session. I felt Jean-Luc squeeze my hand again, and then he pressed himself just a little bit closer to me.

"I see the tray table from Beverly's office," I said.

"Next," McBride said. His voice was even; calm; sounding very Betazed to me.

I heard Deanna say softly from behind me, "Breathe, Will."

I breathed. Da Costa brought in a tray from the replicator; then a fork and spoon; then a napkin; then a plate –

"It's all right," Jean-Luc said in my ear, "it's all right," and I felt him pull me to him a bit.

"Let's pause for a minute," McBride said, "and see if we can't get you breathing again, William."

When had I stopped breathing? I wondered. Deanna's voice calmly instructed me through the breathing exercises again, and I realised that Jean-Luc was breathing with me.

"Do you need to go to your safe place for a minute, Will?" she asked, and I could feel her rest her hand on my shoulder.

"No," I said, confused. I didn't think that I was acting anxious.

"Joao," McBride said,

and I could feel myself tensing up as I saw da Costa bring in the food from this morning, the egg and the toast and the little bowel of fruit.

"We know what the trigger is," McBride said, "bring it in, Joao,"

and I knew too, and I could see the table, and the cushion, and the chair, and the plate with scrambled eggs and toast cut up into four squares on it, and the berries in a little plastic bowl with kittens and puppies on it, and the glass of orange juice at the edge of the table, condensation running down it; and I felt the cushion slipping, and then the hands were lifting me up and tying me to the chair so that I couldn't move –

"Tell me what you see through the wall, William," I heard McBride say from somewhere very far away; and I felt Jean-Luc tighten his arm around me, and say into my ear,

"You're safe, William, nothing can get through the wall; you're not there, you are here with me."

I could feel Deanna's hands on my shoulders, and I thought I heard her telling me to breathe, and then I could feel Jean-Luc breathing, and Beverly said,

"His blood pressure is rising,"

and McBride took both my hands, in the same way that Jean-Luc did when he wanted me to pay attention, and he said calmly, "You are looking through a wall at something that happened a very long time ago. It cannot hurt you now, in the present. You are here in sickbay and you are safe. Nothing that you see can come through the wall to hurt you. You are not on the other side of that wall, William. You are on _this _side of the wall, with Jean-Luc beside you, and your treatment team here to help you. Describe what you see."

I said, "I see Billy climbing up on the chair, and the cushion sliding off, and breakfast is there, scrambled eggs on the puppy plate with toast in corners and the berries in milk are in the kitty bowl, and there's a glass of orange juice."

"You're doing fine, _mon cher_," Jean-Luc said, and I could feel his arms wrapped around me.

"Where is Billy?" McBride asked.

"In the kitchen," I said. "At the kitchen table."

"Is there only one chair?"

"No," I answered, and it was as if I were looking at a viewscreen. Somewhere inside of me I knew that Billy and I were the same child, but I was separated from Billy by the wall. "Four chairs. The chairs have cushions, to sit on, because they're wooden, with open backs and slats going up, and cushions are tied by a string to the chairs through the back. The cushions are – they're cream-coloured, I guess, with green flowers – no, it's ivy, it's green ivy twining in a pattern."

"Is Billy going to have his breakfast?"

I felt my throat start to close up, and Deanna said behind me,

"Just breathe, Will, you're all right, we're right here."

I took a breath and felt Jean-Luc breathing again right beside me.

"Tell me what you see," McBride said. "Who else is in the kitchen?"

"Billy's father," I said, and I could see him, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, reaching down and catching Billy as he slid off the chair.

"Tell me what you see."

"The cushion is loose, and Billy's sliding off with it," I said. "The hands –"

"Whose hands?"

"His father's hands, they catch him – oh, God," I said, "don't, please don't."

"Shhh," Jean-Luc said, "You are here, with me. You can feel me holding you, can't you, Will?"

I could feel Jean-Luc holding me. "Yes," I said.

"Where are you, William?" McBride said.

"Sickbay," I answered. "I'm in sickbay. Behind the wall."

"That's right," McBride said, and his voice was so calm and soothing, it sounded almost like Deanna's voice, that hint of an accent to it. "You are behind the wall. You are watching Billy. What happens to Billy cannot happen to you, because you are right here, safe, with us. Where are you?"

"In sickbay," I repeated. "I'm in sickbay, and I'm safe, behind the wall."

"_Bien, mon chou_," Jean-Luc said softly to me.

"Billy's father caught him, so he wouldn't fall off the chair," McBride restated. "That was a good thing for Billy's father to do, wasn't it? Tell me what you see."

"He's tying Billy to the chair," I said, "with like some sort of a cloth, around his arms and chest, so he can't move."

"Is he hurting Billy?"

"No – he's scared," I said. "Billy's scared. He's crying. He wants his mother."

"His mother can't help him," McBride said. "His mother is gone."

"She's dead," I said. I could feel tears running down my face. "She can't help him. No one can help him. No one can ever help him."

"Shhh," Jean-Luc said, and I could feel him wiping my face. "It's all right. I'm here."

"What do you see, William?" McBride was pushing me.

"His father is turning the chair," I said dully. "He's opening his fly. He's taking his penis out. It's erect –"

"I'm here," Jean-Luc repeated, and I felt his arms tighten around me again.

"What do you see?" McBride said. I could feel him holding my hands.

"He's putting his penis in Billy's mouth," I said. "He's making Billy take him. He's thrusting. It's too big. Billy's choking and crying. He doesn't care," I said, "He doesn't care."

"You are behind the wall," McBride tells me. "Nothing can hurt you here, behind the wall. You are safe, William. Billy is not, but you are not Billy. You are safe."

When had I started to cry? I said, "He makes Billy swallow it. Some of it spills out of Billy's mouth. Oh, please," I said. "Do I have to do this? I don't want to do this."

"What do you see?"

"His father takes the glass of orange juice," I said. "He puts it against Billy's mouth. He's saying he can have the orange juice now, to take the taste away. He's telling Billy to drink the orange juice. It's cold," I said, "it's cold, and it's sour, and it smells like semen – and Billy's throwing it up, the orange juice and the semen, he's throwing it up, all over the food, and the table. Don't hit him. Don't hit him. He's just a little kid. How can anyone do this to a little kid?"

I turned my face into Jean-Luc's shoulder and felt him kissing me.

"Joao, would you take it away now?" McBride said. "Dr Crusher, now would be a good time, I think."

"Will," Beverly said, resting a hand on my shoulder, "I'm just going to give you something to help you sleep," and I felt the familiar pressure of a hypo spray in my neck.

"Let's get you to bed, _mon cher_," Jean-Luc said, and he and Dr McBride were helping me up from the couch, and leading me back to my bed.

I don't remember everything being put back the way it was before, but it must have been, because I was in the bed, and Jean-Luc was sitting beside me, holding my hand, sitting in his usual chair, and I was under the blankets and the room was dark.

"You should try to sleep some more," he said.

"I've been asleep?" I asked. "I thought I just was in the bed."

"For a couple of hours," he answered. "Do you need anything? Shall I get Mr da Costa to help you to the head?"

"No," I said, "I'm tired."

"I know," he replied, stroking my hair. "You've had a long day."

"Will you stay with me?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I'm going to be spending the night with you."

"It doesn't bother you?" I asked.

"What doesn't bother me?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"That I've been damaged," I said. "That I'm not clean. That I've done terrible things. That I'm disgusting."

He was silent. "William," he said, and this time he didn't turn away, I could see the tears start to run down his face. "You," he said, "are not – nor have you ever been – disgusting, or dirty, or shamed, even though you were made to feel that way. You are not the one who is responsible. You are not the one to blame. You did the best you could, to try to survive." He wiped his face, and then he moved from the chair to the edge of my bed, and took my hands, and said, "You are a good man. You are kind, and generous, and brave, and funny, and loved, William. I don't know how you managed to survive and become the man you are – I don't think for one moment that I could have survived or become the man you are if it had been me – but you did, and I am grateful you did."

"I don't feel any of those things," I said. "Brave, or good, or anything."

"I know," he answered. "I know."

"You think McBride can help me?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "He can help you."

"And you don't think I'm disgusting." I was feeling very sleepy again.

"No," he said. "I don't think anything of the sort."

"And you're going to spend the night with me," I said. "Like last night."

"Yes, just like last night."

I was quiet. "You'll still want me?" I asked, finally. "Because I don't see how anyone could."

"Yes," he said fiercely, pulling me into his arms. "I will always want you."

"I'll go to sleep now," I said, "don't be too long."

"I won't," he promised, but I was already asleep.


	30. Interlude: Six

Interlude: Six

It hadn't started out as a treatment meeting. Picard had left sickbay to return to the bridge for a few hours; he'd promised Will he'd spend the night with him, but Will was so confused, time wise, that he'd thought it was already evening when in fact it was only mid-afternoon. He'd tried to wake Will to explain, when he'd realised Will's mistake, but Beverly must have given him – what had Will said before? – a dose large enough to knock out a horse.

So he'd left Will in the capable hands of Joao da Costa, whose shift wouldn't be over until the end of beta shift, when the young crewman Stoch would take over. Picard's interview with Stoch had left the crewman visibly shaken, even for a Vulcan; Picard would put no reprimand in the boy's record; it would be a life lesson, after all. It would have been the end of Starfleet for the boy had Will harmed himself; that was enough for the crewman to meditate upon.

They were in orbit, no real reason for the captain to be on the bridge at all except that a presence was needed; his presence having been felt, he retreated to his ready room, intending at last to focus on at least the paperwork for McBride's continuing residence on the ship, along with everything that McBride had requested in order to set up shop. He spent a dreary hour sipping tea and signing requisitions; then he opened his communications, dreading either notification or a query from the Fleet. Of all the admirals who might zero in on his continued presence this close to the Neutral Zone – despite his laying down track so that the McBride project was already approved and had a paper trail – it was Nechayev he didn't want to hear from, and so it was Nechayev he was expecting. Luck prevailed, however; no communications from HQ yet; no idle admiral sniffing around. There was, however, an equally dismal request from Kyle Riker for an update on his son.

When hell froze over, Picard thought, and closed out his padd. He realised he would, at some point, have to apprise Troi of his revenge fantasies – despite her outwardly mild appearance, she was her mother's daughter and he suspected they could indulge in a few before he, at least, would have to let his go.

Synchronicity seemed to be a common occurrence amongst the senior staff of the _Enterprise_; Picard was not surprised to hear his door chime and see Deanna walk in. She looked a little better than she had in the morning; he knew that Will's suffering and rapid mood swings were taking a toll on her.

"We're having drinks in Ten Forward, Captain," she said. "I thought perhaps you'd like to join us."

"After today," Picard said agreeably, rising from his desk, "a drink sounds like a good idea."

"Good," Deanna said, and she smiled, a warm one, indicating that whatever she'd done in the past few hours had helped her regain her equanimity.

"Who is 'we'?" he asked, accompanying her into the corridor and toward the turbo lift.

"Alasdair, Beverly, Gwyn," she answered. "Joao is, of course, staying with Will. I think Iñaki will probably join us."

"Who is Iñaki?" Picard asked.

"Oh, sorry, Captain," Deanna said as she stepped into the turbo lift. "Dr Sandoval. His first name's Ignacio."

"Of course," Picard said, reaching back into his memories of Catalunya.

"Were you able to get some rest, sir?" Deanna asked.

Picard felt his lips turning upward in what might have been a wry smile. "I made a very small dent in some paperwork," he replied, and then he gave a very Gallic shrug.

Deanna's mouth twitched, as if she wanted to laugh, but the doors to the turbo lift opened, and they walked out into Ten Forward. Beta shift hadn't quite ended, so it was fairly quiet. It was much too early for the dinner hour, or even before dinner drinks, and a little too late for a late lunch. Mac and another of the staff had put two tables together, and he and Deanna were the last to join what seemed to be on the way to becoming a convivial group. They stood as a whole when the captain entered, even McBride, although it took him a moment to recognise the protocol. Picard nodded, briefly, so that they could all retake their seats, and then pulled out a chair for Deanna, who slid in gracefully, diplomat's daughter that she was.

The seat they'd left for the captain was with its back to the observation windows and facing the doors, and Picard was grateful – and he checked himself for any sense of the maudlin and found it absent – that he wasn't facing Will's table. Mac sauntered over and took drinks; a second round for McBride and Otaka, who would be off shift; nothing but juice for Sandoval, who would be coming on; Beverly seemed content to be sipping a glass of wine. Deanna ordered some sort of a chocolate confection, laced with what he suspected might be something stronger, and he ordered one of his brother's table reds.

He sipped his wine and listened to McBride tell some amusing anecdotes about the life of his grandmother on Betazed, who apparently had had a number of escapades with Deanna's grandmother; and then one especially amusing story about Deanna's mother – Deanna having wickedly given McBride permission to tell his version of it – when she was around ten years old. Beverly was quiet but clearly enjoying herself; Gwyn Otaka and Ignacio Sandoval were not as familiar with the lady in question but had certainly heard stories and so seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was all quiet and civilised; the lady in question would have happily told the story herself, had she been there, he suspected. No one would ever have guessed, watching this small gathering, the enormous strain that they were all under; Sandoval undoubtedly was still recovering from the failure of the other night; Otaka was dealing with a patient who wasn't taking in any nourishment at all; and after today, there was certainly an understanding as to why.

There was a natural lull in the conversation, and then McBride said, "How much weight do you think William has lost over these past two weeks?"

Beverly put her glass down and replied, "I will tell you exactly. Twelve kilos."

Picard was startled out of his reverie. "As much as that?" he asked.

"Yes," Beverly answered. "If he's not eating in the next twenty-four hours, I'm ready to move him back to the biobed."

"He's not drinking anything either," Otaka said. "He has to be forced to drink a little bit of water. Da Costa said he finally got his cup of coffee this morning, but he only drank about half of it."

"Suicide by starvation is a very slow process," Deanna said carefully.

Picard drew in his breath. "Is that what he's doing?" he asked.

"Whether he's consciously doing this or not, Captain Picard," Dr McBride responded, "the results are exactly the same."

"Surely," Picard said, "after this trigger was revealed, along with the memory associated with it, he won't have the same flashback now at mealtimes?"

"He has yet to integrate the memory, Captain," Deanna said. "Just because we know what the trigger is doesn't mean that the power of the memory – and its ability to hurt Will – has been defused."

"The problem, as I see it," said McBride, "is that we can likely assume two things about this memory, given the information we have based on the captain's interview with Kyle Riker. The first is that Will stopped calling himself 'Billy' when he started school, so this memory predates that. And I suspect that Will was much younger than five in this memory, given his difficulty in climbing, as he said, onto the chair and sliding off the cushion. I am guessing he was closer to three than to five, or perhaps it occurred sometime after his mother's death, when he was two and a half, but before, say, four years old. Given that William has always been tall, he probably was younger than four. The second assumption we can make is that although this might have been the first time his father abused him at the table, I sincerely doubt – with the severity of Will's reaction, and the severity of Will's illness – that this was the only time this type of abuse occurred."

"That was my impression as well," Picard said. "Riker sidestepped my repeated attempts to get him to admit to abusing Will directly when I spoke to him, but he all but acknowledged that the abuse was chronic until Will returned home from the hospital in Valdez. At that point, he said that things were 'different.'"

"Will's illness is complicated by two layers of trauma," McBride said, and the genial tone of his voice was gone; this was an expert giving an expert's opinion. "The first is the repetitive trauma of child sexual abuse, which in Will's case included physical violence, emotional manipulation and abuse, and psychological terror. Whether this type of abuse stopped when Will was seven, we don't know – but I sincerely doubt it did." McBride waited; Picard realised that this was the doctor's method of giving his listeners time to digest the information they'd been given. "The second layer is Will's repeated deployment on the battlefield, culminating with the war against the Borg and the destruction of half the fleet, which by definition would have included many people that he had worked with over the years. I will work with Will exclusively on his childhood traumas. The program that I have designed, the prototype of which will be tested on this ship, can then be used to further Will's treatment for his war-related PTSD."

"If all goes well," Deanna said, "he will have the tools he needs by then to process his treatment more quickly."

Picard said, finishing his wine, "It still leaves us with the problem of how to get Will to eat." He was silent for a moment and then he said, "I really don't think, Beverly, that he would tolerate being returned to the biobed. I think that will make things worse."

"I am not," Beverly said, and she was speaking as the CMO, "going to allow my patient to die right before my eyes. Not when I can prevent it."

"The difficulty is, Captain," McBride said gently, "to do with attachment. Will was securely attached to his mother for two and a half years. His childhood was normal up until then. When she became ill, so that she was hospitalised, she vanished from Will's life completely. The attachment was severed. At that point, the father became the primary caregiver. My feeling is that in this particular memory, we witnessed the severing of the attachment Will had – however tenuous it might have been – to his father. Now we have a very young child who is unattached. He has learned some terrible things. He has learned that there is no trust in the world. People vanish without warning or explanation. He has learned that love – a parent's love, the most primal love – hurts. He has learned that the world is unsafe and he is alone in it. Suicide – whether at seven or thirty-seven – is the only logical response to such knowledge."

"Then what do we do?" Picard asked, and he didn't think he had ever felt so hopeless in his life.

"Is this a closed party, or can someone else join in?"

Picard looked up into the kind face of Guinan.

"By all means, Guinan," he said, "please join us." He turned to face McBride, who was rising from his chair. "Dr McBride, this is the proprietor of Ten Forward, Guinan. Guinan," Picard said, "Dr Alasdair McBride."

As Ignacio Sandoval brought a chair over for Guinan, McBride took her hand and clasped it warmly in both of his. "An El Aurian," he said. "I'm so very pleased to meet you."

Guinan sat between Otaka and Deanna. "You are the doctor who is here to treat Commander Riker?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

Guinan gazed at Picard and then said, "Is this a treatment meeting, then?"

"We're talking about Will's treatment," Beverly said, "and the difficulties in treating him, but it's not an official meeting. Guinan," Beverly said, looking at McBride, "is the reason why we were able to save Will's life to begin with. She was the one to contact Jean-Luc about Will's flashback here."

"William is a fortunate man," McBride said, "to have so many people who care about him."

"If only he could see how many of us care about him," Picard said, and then mentally shrugged. There was no longer any point in being discreet; at least not amongst this group.

"How do you know Will?" McBride asked.

Guinan smiled, and her eyes went to the empty table by the window. "Will does much of his work as first officer at that table over there," she said. "Having trouble with your supervisor? Mr Riker will invite you for a coffee, and you can talk about it. Crew evaluations? Four hours and four chocolate sundaes later, and they are all done. Are you hoping for an assignment which will show your capabilities? You can talk to Mr Riker, as he will invite you to lunch."

McBride glanced at the empty table, and at the room that was filling with people, now that beta shift had ended.

"What difficulty were you discussing?" Guinan asked.

"Commander Riker is unable to eat, due to a trauma revealed to us earlier today," Gwyn Otaka said. "He is dehydrated and losing weight. It's not a good situation."

"Having to do with his father?" Guinan persisted, looking at Picard.

"Will associates meals with his father's sexual abuse," McBride said. "The trauma is significant."

"The Will I know," Guinan said, "loves food. He's a great cook. We've spent some good times, talking about food, sharing recipes."

"And yet almost every one of his flashbacks," McBride countered, "has occurred at a mealtime." McBride paused, and then he said, "He cooks?"

"He's a good cook," Deanna agreed. "He's made some wonderful meals for me."

"When did he learn to cook?"

"He was very young," Picard answered, "or at least that's how he tells it."

Guinan said, "He told me he learned to cook because his father wouldn't. His housekeeper – Mrs S, he calls her – bought him a cookbook for his seventh birthday. She helped him learn, taking him to the market, teaching him about food. He has some excellent recipes from her."

"He was an amazingly resourceful child," McBride said, shaking his head. "He learns to cook, to take control of mealtimes."

"Guinan," Picard said, "he trusts you. Why don't you and Mr Otaka meet with Will so he can design his meals himself? You know what he likes to eat. Mr Otaka knows what he needs, according to Dr McBride's program. It gives Will a chance – as Dr McBride just noted – to regain some control."

"It also has the added attraction," McBride said eagrely, joining in, "of removing surprise from mealtimes. Patients with this kind of trauma cannot tolerate any surprises, no matter how small. And," it seemed McBride was just getting started, "we can remove the orderlies – who are all male – from the process. We've just seen how early the abuse started. We need to go further back in time, to when Will felt safe – and that was when his mother was alive, and he received nourishment from her. Having Guinan take on this role – a woman he already associates positively with food – is perfect."

Picard remembered his earlier conversation with Guinan and said, "Then make it so."

Guinan rose, and the male members of the meeting rose with her. "Gwyn," she said to Otaka, "I know you're off duty, but we'll need to talk about supper before you leave."

"Right now," Otaka said. "He's scheduled to have his meal in thirty minutes, and we'll need to work fast, if we want to move the orderlies out of the picture."

"I'll give you twenty-four hours," Beverly said, also rising. "If he shows any progress in eating, I'll be satisfied. But if he doesn't improve, even just a bit, I'm placing him back in the ICU. Regardless," and she looked directly at Picard, "of what anyone thinks."

For a minute everyone looked at Picard, but Picard smiled and merely said, "Of course, Beverly."

She stared at him for a minute, and then she rolled her eyes and laughed. "It's been a pleasure," she said, not a little ironically. "Iñaki, I'll walk with you back to sickbay."

"Captain," Ignacio Sandoval said, and he and Beverly walked off towards the turbo lift.

Otaka nodded to the captain, and left the table with Guinan, leaving Deanna, McBride, and Picard still seated. Picard thought about his promise to Will earlier, about staying the night with him, and Will's time confusion, the looming dinner hour, and Will's inability to remember that, in fact, Picard was perfectly willing to love him. He was fairly sure that Deanna would have made plans to have dinner with McBride, seeing as how he was clearly a family friend, and he had no desire to intrude. Still, he had the feeling that there was something McBride wanted to discuss.

"You said, earlier, Dr McBride," he began, slowly, using his familiar deliberate searching for words technique, one that frequently allowed him insight into the person with whom he was speaking, "that Will's brain was shutting down non-essential functions. What exactly does that mean?"

"One of the surest signs, as a diagnostician, of PTSD is the presence of what I call a disordered brain," McBride responded, in a similar tone to Picard's. "The preliminary function tests that Deanna ran on Will showed impaired memory, recall, logic, and reasoning. This is an indication of traumatic brain injury – he had a concussion three weeks ago – and a symptom of PTSD."

"Practically speaking," Picard said, "this means what?"

"He has mood swings, and an inability to stabilise his moods. Sometimes, an inability to recognise his moods – thinking, for example, that he is being perfectly reasonable, when in fact he is irritable, or that he is calm, when he is highly anxious."

"We have," Deanna said, "seen that quite a bit. He frequently says he is calm, when he is not."

"He is struggling to comprehend complex instructions," McBride continued. "He is unable to understand what is happening around him. And he is having difficulty retaining information."

"He said to me earlier," and for Picard, this was the crux of the conversation, "that he forgets I love him."

He was looking at McBride, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Deanna's face, and he reached out his hand to her. She hesitated for just a moment, and then she took his hand; he remembered that Guinan had said Deanna needed to let Will go, and he realised, as he held her hand for that brief moment, that she had.

"Yes," McBride said. "You and I will have to talk – tomorrow, at some point – about your relationship with him. But I wanted to tell you, Captain – if you will allow me to – that your instincts with Will are very good. It must be very difficult – given that you are both command officers of this ship – for you to be so demonstrative with him. He needs unconditional love and affection desperately – even as he is forgetting, as you say, how much you care for him, and, at times, pushing you away."

They were suddenly straying into uncharted waters, and Picard, aware that Geordi and Worf were at a table not that far away, stood up.

"I'll leave you to your meal," he said, "unfortunately, I need to put in another hour in my office."

"Are you going to check on Will first?" Deanna asked.

He thought for a moment and then said, "No, I don't want to interfere with whatever Guinan and Gwyn Otaka are doing. I promised Will I'd be with him tonight. I'll just make an early night of it."

"Perfect," McBride said. "Will needs you to be as physically close to him as you can be. Spending the night with him will do him good, as he needs the contact. But we'll talk more about that in the morning," McBride finished, smiling. "He has a full day tomorrow, his first full day of treatment. I suspect he sleeps better when you are with him. He'll need the rest."

Picard tugged at his tunic, and he thought, for a moment, that there was a glint of something – amusement? fondness? - in Deanna's eyes.

"Good night, then," he responded, and, nodding briefly to Geordi and Worf, he walked purposefully towards the turbo lift.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

I realised, when I opened my eyes again and saw the familiar form of da Costa standing at his post, that I must have been confused when I'd spoken before to Jean-Luc. I'd thought it was evening, and Jean-Luc would be returning soon, but it obviously wasn't even the end of beta shift now, since da Costa was still here. It made me wonder what else I'd been confused about, what else I wasn't getting. McBride had said my brain was shutting down, and it seemed to me that here was hard evidence that he was speaking the truth. It didn't make any sense, then, for Jean-Luc and Deanna to oppose my resignation. Clearly – on sick leave or not – I would not be able to fulfill my duties as first officer. Here we were, so close to the Neutral Zone – I did, at least, remember that – and if we were in a firefight, on sick leave or not, I would be called upon to function, and I didn't even know the time of day anymore. I had a broken hand, and a reinjured arm; I was having debilitating flashbacks, my emotions were out of control – how could I be anything but in the way? It would be safer for the ship if I resigned. As a civilian, I could help a little bit in a civilian capacity, or they could drug me and keep me under confinement until the danger was passed.

Jean-Luc was letting his personal feelings for me get in the way of running this ship, my ship. Somehow I had to make him understand that he was endangering us all by his inaction. It was exactly the same as his wanting to be on dangerous away teams. It would be my last duty as first officer to see that Data was promoted in my place.

"Do you need anything, sir?" da Costa said.

"Can you help me sit up?" I asked.

"Of course, sir," he replied, and he rearranged my pillows and the covers so that I was comfortably sitting against the headboard.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Twenty minutes to end of beta shift, sir," he said. "Mr Stoch will be reporting, sir."

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"Sir?" da Costa said.

I grinned. "I've been on the receiving end of a few of the captain's 'chats' over the years," I said. "It's not a particularly pleasant experience."

Da Costa returned my grin. "No, sir," he agreed. "Mr Stoch is still pretty shaken up. I've yet to have that experience, sir."

"Take my advice and keep it that way," I said. "The first time he called me in his ready room, I expected he'd yell at me and that would be that. It was," I said, "Captain de Soto's method. Captain Picard does not yell."

"No, sir," da Costa said. "I couldn't imagine him yelling, sir."

"I was singularly unprepared," I said. "He very quietly and efficiently cuts you down to size. In fact," I said, "I used to be three inches taller. I've shrunk, over the years."

I was rewarded with da Costa's laughter. Maybe I could still function a little bit, after all.

"Is this a private party," Guinan asked, "or can I join in the fun?"

"Guinan," I said. It had been so long since I had seen anyone from outside sickbay. "I'm allowed to have visitors now?"

"Well, Commander," she said, coming into my room, "I'm not sure that you can meet with all of engineering, but I did have permission from the captain to come."

I grinned. "That's okay," I said. "I don't really want to meet with all of engineering. You can sit in the captain's chair," I offered. "This is Mr da Costa, who has been doing his best to keep me from causing havoc in here."

"I've seen you in Ten Forward," Guinan said. "Mr da Costa. You have a very difficult job, then, if it's to keep this man from causing havoc."

"Yes, ma'am," da Costa said, and he was smiling. "I haven't always been successful."

"I keep him on his toes," I said lightly. "It prevents him from being bored."

I did see him roll his eyes then.

"I notice they don't have anything in here that you can throw, William," Guinan remarked. "They learn quickly."

Da Costa turned his face away, so I couldn't see him laugh.

"Does the whole ship know about that?" I asked, reddening.

She shrugged. "You know where I heard it," she answered. "I'd say that was a good guess."

"So much for command presence," I said.

"Oh, I think," Guinan said, "that it will only add to your charm," and she reached out and held my hand for a moment.

"How come the captain gave you permission to see me?" I asked. "Dr Crusher has to chase Worf away."

"He was in Ten Forward with your team," Guinan explained. "I asked. He said yes."

"Today?" I asked. "He was there today?"

"Yes," she said. "Your doctor McBride, and Dr Crusher, Troi, the captain – they were having drinks. Troi's having dinner with Dr McBride now. I'm assuming they're related?"

"They might as well be," I said. "Something to do with his grandmother and hers."

"Ah," Guinan said. "Anyway, Will, while I'm here, I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, Guinan," I said. "I'm so bored. Anything."

"I suppose," Guinan said, grinning, "once they took your toys away so you couldn't throw them anymore, you would be bored."

Now I rolled my eyes. "Okay," I said. "I give up. No more."

"I'm sorry, Will," she said. "I just wished I could have been there. I think half the ship wishes they could have been there."

"I know da Costa wishes he hadn't," I said, because I was sure I could hear da Costa chuckling softly.

"Just the look on the captain's face – "Guinan continued.

"Please," I begged. "I'll never hear the end of it from da Costa if you don't stop."

"Oh, all right, Will," she said, and she held my hand again.

"You had a question," I reminded her.

"Yes," she said. "Indeed I did. Do you remember when we were talking – oh, I think it was three or four weeks ago – about summer and summer foods?"

I thought for a minute. "Oh, yeah," I said. "It was because Geordi had said something about a certain soup his mother made only in the summer."

"And we got on the subject of favourite summer foods," she said. "For me, the first crop of – I guess you'd call them peas, in standard – from my grandmother's garden. We'd pick them and eat them raw, still in their pods. It meant that summer had really started."

"The first berries were mine," I said. "We used to take the dogs and baskets and go pick them."

"That's right," Guinan said. "You said your friend's mother used to make a drink – do you remember?"

"Sure," I said. "We'd bring home the berries. It was Rosie's mother. She'd separate them, some for jam, and some for dessert. And then she'd make a smoothie with them."

"That was it," Guinan said. "I didn't know what that was. And then, I don't know, work, I guess, and I forgot all about it, but I remembered it today, and I thought, you know, we had some berries in that last shipment of fruit we brought on board. And I wondered if you'd give me the recipe, so I could try it. If it's any good," she said, "I'll put it on the menu. You're probably not the only one who has berry picking as a summer memory."

"Sure," I said. "It's easy to make. You want the recipe now?"

She said, "You can remember it, Will? Right off the top of your head, right now?"

"Yeah," I said. "Why couldn't I?"

She shrugged. "Because I loved my mother's prawn soup, but I couldn't even begin to give you the recipe, not without thinking a long time about it."

"It's no big deal," I said. "Do you want to write it down?"

She glanced up at da Costa, and then she said, "Will I need to?"

"It's pretty simple."

"I think I can remember, then. Go ahead and tell it to me."

"Okay," I said. "Give me a minute. All right, Rosie's mother's recipe called for one cup of milk, one cup of natural yoghurt, one cup of berries, and sugar to taste, just to take the edge off the tartness." I paused, and then I added, "But – this is better, I think, how I made it. You have the milk and yoghurt, one cup each. That doesn't change. But you can have a half cup of raspberries and a half cup of blackberries – or whatever's in season – and instead of sugar to taste, you add about a teaspoon, a teaspoon and a quarter, of orange blossom honey. Then a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon and a quarter teaspoon of ginger, grated, if you've got fresh. Put it in the blender, but you want to be able to drink it," I said, "with a straw, so not too thick. Chill and it's ready."

"That sounds delicious, Will," Guinan said. "About how many drinks is that?"

"Three, I guess," I said. "I don't really remember. Maybe more, because there was me, and Rosie, and Pete, and sometimes George, Rosie's older brothers."

"So I'm going to make this," Guinan said, "and I'm going to bring it back here for you and Mr da Costa to taste, to see if I've got it right. Is that okay with you?"

"You're going to an awful lot of trouble over one smoothie," I said, "but sure. You'll try it, won't you, da Costa?"

"Yes, sir," da Costa said. "Sounds great."

"I like your adding the fresh ginger, Will," Guinan said, standing up. "You know, if you ever get tired of Starfleet, you can always come work for me. We'll open our own restaurant. Guinan and Will's," she said, grinning. "It has a good sound to it."

I laughed. "Okay, Guinan," I said. "I'll hold you to that."

"You do that, Commander," she said.

It was the end of beta shift, then, and da Costa left, but not before asking me to make sure that Guinan saved some of the smoothie for him. I told him I would. He paused, and then said,

"Commander Riker?"

"Yes, Mr da Costa?"

"I know you don't think this," he said, "but you're going to be okay. I promise you that."

I didn't know what to say.

He walked back over to me, and surprisingly, took my hand. "Sir," he said. "Don't hand in your resignation. Give Dr McBride one week. Just one week, sir."

I said, "It's going to take more than one week to fix me, Mr da Costa."

"I know that, sir," he said. "You're going to have to work very hard, even in his intensive program. But you can afford to give him one week – and I promise you, sir, that you'll realise that even in just one week, you'll see that you are going to get better."

"I know, Joao," I said quietly, "that Dr McBride was able to help Joaquim, even after what Joaquim went through. But – " and I didn't know how to finish. How do you say that your father took every day of your babyhood away from you by forcing you to have sex? How do you say that it made you so crazy that you killed a child? I didn't have one trauma. I'd had years upon years of them.

"William," da Costa said, "this is what Dr McBride specialises in, what you went through. Layers and layers of trauma; abuse after abuse; but you survived, William. Because you chose to survive. You thought there was still something worthwhile, some reason to keep going."

I didn't say anything. I didn't know – again – what to say.

"You have so many reasons now, to keep going," he said, "and I think you know that. I know it's hard. It's going to get harder, too, before it gets better. But I promise you, William – it will get better."

I said, "Thank you, Mr da Costa."

"I know I've probably overstepped my bounds, sir," da Costa said, letting go of my hand. "Just remember, sir, that you are still an honourable man."

"Okay," I said. I didn't deserve his faith in me, but who was I to argue with him? He meant well.

Mr Stoch came in, and took up his post. I was feeling a little overwhelmed, I guess, by what da Costa had said.

"I'm going to do some stretches," I said to Stoch.

"Do you need some help, sir?" Stoch asked.

"I don't think so," I said, swinging my legs off the bed. I stood up, slowly, making sure that I wasn't dizzy or anything. "No, I'm okay," I said, after a minute.

"Have some water," Stoch said, "a few sips, at least, before you stretch, sir."

"All right," I said. I took a few sips of the water that was in the cup by my bed. It was suitably disgusting. "Maybe you could get me some new water, if you get the chance, Mr Stoch," I said.

"Aye, sir."

I did some light torso stretches, and I could feel how tight my back was after all the inactivity. I sat in the chair and did some hamstring stretches.

"Do some abdominals, sir," Stoch said, "and stretch your core."

"Okay," I agreed, and I did about thirty of those.

I rested for a bit, concentrating on my breathing, the way Deanna wanted me to.

"I understand," I said, "that the captain had a talk with you."

Immediately he had the blank Vulcan face. "Sir," he said.

"How old are you, Mr Stoch?" I asked.

"Sir," he said. "Twenty-two, sir."

"How come you didn't go to the Academy?" I asked. Vulcan crewmen were fairly rare.

"I wanted to go into a medical program, sir," he said. "My family did not."

I tried not to act surprised. He must have some balls, I thought, to defy his family by becoming a medical crewman.

"The captain's talk," I said. "I've experienced a few of those. They're not easy to go through. I hope, Mr Stoch," I added, "that I was not the cause of your having to listen to one."

I knew I had surprised him, although he covered it well.

"No, sir," he said. "I fell asleep at my post. I am very grateful to the captain that he has given me a second chance. The dishonour – " He fell silent.

I didn't look at him. "I know," I said, "that Vulcans don't need much sleep. About half as much as humans, right?"

"Yes, sir," he answered.

"So I'm guessing," I continued, "that, out of concern, perhaps, for your human crewmates, that you were taking double shifts, so they could sleep?"

He was silent. Then he said, "Aye, sir."

"And I'm thinking that you'd gotten – what, three hours of sleep in maybe a week?" I asked, knowing that it had been at least a week since I'd been taking care of personnel.

He said, "Aye, sir."

"And of course," I said, "you wouldn't tell this to the captain, because it would be making excuses for your dishonourable behaviour."

"Aye, sir." His voice was so low I could barely hear him.

I sighed. "Mr Data is covering for me as first officer," I told him. "And, like you, he's very new at this. An experienced first officer would not have allowed the situation to arise – if I'd been well, and at my post, Mr Stoch, you would not have been permitted to be that altruistic. So, while you may think that this was a personal failure on your part – look at me, Mr Stoch," I said, and I could still muster up my command voice, "this was actually a failure on my part, not yours. I had not put into place protocol for a sudden incapacitation of myself. I left no notes for Mr Data to follow; no personnel instructions. That was a serious breach of command. I will speak to the captain and acknowledge my role in what happened."

"It was my choice – " he began.

"I understand that," I said, cutting him off, "but I know far more about this than you do, Mr Stoch. However, you can learn from this experience, that even though you are a Vulcan with different physical capabilities, even you have your limitations. No more double shifts. Everyone pulls his own weight on this ship, Mr Stoch, regardless of what each person is capable of physically."

"Aye, sir," he said.

"What you need to know about the captain," I said, "is that he truly will give you this second chance. He will not hold this mistake against you – it's already done."

"Aye, sir," he said again. And then, "Thank you, sir."

I stood up. "I could use a swim," I said.

"You have light physical exercise on your schedule for tomorrow, sir," he offered.

"You've seen my schedule?" I asked. "It would be nice if I could see it."

"I'm sure you'll be given it, sir," he said.

"Before tomorrow? I doubt that," I said, but I shrugged and sat back down in the chair.

"You're all tense in the neck and shoulders, sir," he said. "I could give you a brief massage, if that would help."

I had a quick thought about the last massage I'd had – Jean-Luc's massage – and I could feel my face start to colour.

"No, I don't think so," I said. "Thanks, anyway."

"Sir."

"Have you caused any more trouble?" Guinan asked, walking into my room. She had a thermal bag, and she set it down on the night table. She took out two covered containers, and then, to my delight, two straws. "Here we go, Will," she said. "Two berry smoothies. Where's Mr da Costa?" she said, looking around.

"He left at the end of beta shift," I answered. "He told me to tell you to save him one."

She laughed. "There's plenty more where these came from," she said. "Once I was satisfied, I made a good batch."

"This is Mr Stoch," I said. "My nighttime babysitter."

"Sir," Stoch said in a disapproving voice.

"I'd offer you one, Mr Stoch," Guinan said, "but there's milk in it."

"Thank you for the offer," Stoch said primly.

"Here you go, Will," she said, giving me the container and the straw. "Tell me what you think."

I took a sip. It was cold and frothy and just the right balance between tart and sweet, with the added touch of ginger and – "You added some lemon zest to it?" I asked.

"I knew you'd recognise it," Guinan said. "Mac told me you wouldn't, but you're too good not to have known."

"I like it," I said, drinking some more. "The lemon zest gives it an added punch. This is good, Guinan, thanks."

Guinan took a few sips of hers, but I got the feeling that she was primarily watching me, for some reason.

"You didn't use blackberries, though," I said. "I don't know what you used. Raspberries and something else."

"They're called highberries in standard," she said. "We got them in, and they tasted good. I thought, since we didn't have blackberries, they'd work just as well."

"They do," I agreed. "A good texture."

I hadn't realised it, but I'd finished the drink. She stood up, and put hers back in the thermal bag. "So, Will," she said. "Tomorrow you can have another smoothie in the morning, if you'd like, and then we'll sit down, you and Gwyn and I, and go over exactly what we're going to do to keep you eating and drinking."

I set the container down on the table. I went back over in my head what she'd said when she'd come in the first time. She'd seen Jean-Luc with the rest of my team in Ten Forward – and Jean-Luc had given her permission to visit me.

"You're in charge of feeding me?" I asked.

"It's like this, Will," she said, and she went from her usual amiable self to a completely different person, the person who could put Q in his place and who had no trouble whatsoever standing up to both the captain and the Borg. "You're thinking that maybe, since you didn't succeed the first time, that you could get away with starving yourself to death. But you know, dying of dehydration is not fun, Will. It's slow and it's painful. And it's ugly for the rest of us to watch it. You and I – we talk about food all the time. We trade recipes; we've tried different things out. I'm no threat to you, I think. And as smart as you are, William, maybe I'm just a little smarter," and she smiled. "You and I, we're just going to talk about food, just like we talked about the smoothie. And what sounds good to us, I'll make, and we'll eat it – or drink it, whatever the case may be. And maybe we'll have to add a few things that Gwyn tells us to add, just to keep your friend McBride happy. Okay?"

"And this was your idea or Jean-Luc's?" I asked.

"Let's just say that great minds think alike," she said.

"You tricked me," I said.

"Did I?" she answered. "Maybe you were just ready to have something that tasted good, and that came from a friend."

"Am I doing this on purpose?" I asked, and I could feel the tears start to run down my cheeks again. "I'm not trying to kill myself, am I?"

She put the bag down and hugged me. "Will," she said. "We understand it. Nobody's angry with you, or disappointed in you. We just think there's a better way, a way that you can remember your past and still be able to live."

"I did terrible things," I said.

"I have too, Will," she answered. "Sometimes it's our duty to survive. Sometimes what we have to do in order to survive we wouldn't ever do otherwise. And then we spend our lives doing good, to make up for the bad," she said, holding my face, "and you, my friend, have done a lot of good, in your time. You don't owe anyone anything, Will. You don't have to punish yourself for something you've already atoned for."

She continued to hold me for another few minutes, and then she let me go. "Don't cry, Will," she said. "We'll have a good time, talking about food. Maybe we can teach Otaka a few things."

I laughed a little, and wiped my face.

"Do you want to give it a try?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I'll try, Guinan."

"That's all we're asking, Will," she said. "Just to try."

I nodded. I could hear Jean-Luc talking to Dr Sandoval outside.

"Here's the captain," she said. "You get a good sleep tonight, Will. Your doctor McBride has a lot planned for you tomorrow."

"Okay," I said, standing. "Thanks, Guinan."

"Anytime," she answered. She put my container in the thermal bag and left the room. I could hear her speaking with Jean-Luc, and then Lt Fisk entered.

"Time for your vitals, Commander," he said. "Sit down, please."

I sat back down in the chair, and he ran the scanner over me.

"Your blood pressure's up a bit," he said. "Are you feeling anxious again?"

"I was, I guess," I said. "I think I'm all right, now."

"Let me just talk with Dr Sandoval," Fisk said. "We'll see what we can do."

"I don't want to be sedated," I said.

"I know, Commander," Fisk replied, and left the room.

"It's a cast of thousands," I said to Stoch.

He didn't smile, but as a Vulcan, I didn't expect him to.

Dr Sandoval came in, then, with Jean-Luc.

"Lt Fisk says your blood pressure is up," he said, "but that you don't want to be sedated."

I glanced at Jean-Luc. "If it's not up that much, I don't have to be, right?" I asked. "I just don't like how it makes me feel."

"Guinan says you were able to drink something," Sandoval continued.

"Yes," I said. "And Mr Stoch will tell you I had some water, too."

"That's true, Doctor," Stoch said.

Jean-Luc said, "I'm going to be with him, Dr Sandoval. He should be fine."

"If you need the sedative, Commander," Dr Sandoval said, "I'll expect you to let Captain Picard know. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I said. "I can do that."

"Captain, we're on full staff tonight," Dr Sandoval said. "If you need anything, just press the call button. Mr Stoch will be right outside the door."

"Of course," Jean-Luc said, and he gave no indication whatsoever that there'd been a breakdown of that system the night before.

"Well, Will," he said to me, when the cast of thousands had left, "how are you?"

He closed the door softly, and I resisted the urge to just collapse in his arms.

"I'm okay, I think," I said. "I was a little upset, when Guinan talked to me, but she talked me through it."

"Her idea is a good one," he said, "don't you think?"

"I don't really understand why I'm not eating or drinking," I answered, "but she used my recipe for the smoothie, and it did taste good."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and then he said, "Why don't you just let me hold you for a minute?"

"Okay," I said.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

I said, "Did I forget something again?"

"Nothing important," he answered. "Why don't we get you a shower, and into some clean pyjamas, and then into bed?"

"Yes," I said, "if you'll come with me."

He looked at me, and I could see the delight in his eyes. Then he said, "As much as I would enjoy that, Will, I don't think I'm exhibitionist enough to put on a show for all of sickbay."

I laughed, and he pulled me to him, and I could feel some of that anxiety slipping away. He opened the door, and said, "Mr Stoch, let's get Mr Riker into the shower, shall we?"

I took another sonic shower, and got myself into bed, and then waited for Jean-Luc to finish up. He entered the room, in his robe, and shut the door, and lowered the lights down to ten percent, and checked – I tried not to laugh – to see if the beds were pulled together.

"Afraid you'll fall?" I asked.

"I'm glad," he said, climbing into his bed, "to see you're a little cheeky again."

"Mr da Costa put the beds together," I told him, "and secured them, so they won't come apart."

"I wonder why he did that," Jean-Luc said. "Come here, you," and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

"I wouldn't know," I said.

"I'm not hurting your arms, holding you this way?" he asked.

"No," I said. I put my head on his chest, and he kissed me along my neck.

"You'll be able to sleep tonight?" he murmured. "You seem a little keyed up."

"Mmmh," I said. "Yes. But I'm not paying for these, you know."

He was quiet. "No?" he asked, kissing me again. "Who is, then?"

I shrugged. "You could always bill the Fleet," I said.

He gave a very undignified snort.

"I'm sure Admiral Nechayev would understand," I continued. "Her concern being morale."

"And is this helping your morale?" he said.

"A bit," I answered.

"Oh, a bit," he said, and I could tell he was smiling. "You had something else in mind, Mr Riker?" He was kissing my ear.

"I wouldn't want you to be an exhibitionist," I said.

"I don't know," he said dubiously, "I don't think you know how to be quiet."

I couldn't help it; I laughed. He pulled me tightly into him, and we kissed.

"I wouldn't want to hurt you, Will," he said finally. "You're so terribly fragile."

"Am I?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Could you tell me, if it was too much for you, do you think?"

"I could try," I said. Then I said, "I just want things to be like before. I just want to feel normal again."

"William," he said. "I want you to feel normal again."

"Please, Jean-Luc," I said.

He said, "Very gently, then, _mon cher_. And if I think it's too much for you, we stop. Agreed?" He looked directly at me.

"And you want me," I said.

"Yes. I want," he answered, "to love you, Will."

"I promise," I said, "to let you know if I feel overwhelmed."

"_Bien, mon cœur_," he whispered, "come here to me."

I did, and for a little while, I felt as if I were myself again.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

William was helping Henry set up for judo practise. Because of William's head injury, Henry had been afraid to allow William to rejoin the group, even though William's paediatrician had given the all-clear. He and William continued tai chi, but William was now Henry's official helper, working with the littlest children, such as Jake and Lucy more often than not. William didn't seem to mind terribly, Henry noted; he seemed to understand that falling was not perhaps something he should be doing so soon after his injury. And despite having told Henry that he was thinking of giving up baseball, he'd decided to continue, and as spring was slowing turning into summer, most of William's time was spent in baseball practise. Still, he made time to help Henry with judo twice a week, and Henry came to his house on Sunday afternoons for music practise. William had signed up to take trombone in the school band for the coming year.

Still, Henry realised that there was something secretive about William now. Of course, he'd been a forthcoming child before the injuries and hospitalisations – Henry was even now reluctant to call it what it was, a suicide attempt – and it seemed logical that William's terrible experiences in the hospital would have changed him in some fundamental way. But Henry never expected that William would become withdrawn towards him.

They finished their tai chi exercises. William's balance was improving, and he seemed more relaxed than he had been. He had started to grow again, and Henry wondered just how tall a man he would become. Currently he seemed to be all arms and legs and feet.

"You need new shoes, Will," he said as they began to lay out the mats for judo.

William shrugged. "I know," he said. "I need new cleats for baseball, too."

Henry glanced at William's hands. "You'll need a new glove as well," he remarked.

William sighed. "I need," he said, somewhat dramatically, "to stop growing so fast."

"Your grandfather was very tall," Henry said.

"Not my dad's father," William answered. "I've seen pictures of him."

"No," Henry said. "Your mother's father."

William showed no interest in this information. "Mrs Shugak said she would tell my dad everything I need," he answered.

Henry stopped what he was doing. "William," he said.

"What?" William affected a careful nonchalance.

"Are you afraid of your father?"

William glanced at Henry. He said, "Why should I be?"

Henry thought of all the reasons why it seemed that William had been – and might still be – afraid of his father. He searched the boy's face and found it curiously blank.

Henry backed down. "No reason," he said lightly. "I just wondered why Auntie Tasya would be giving your father that information."

William shrugged again. "'Cause she has the list," he said. He smiled, but Henry had the feeling that it was a calculated one, one designed to deflect him. "It's a pretty long list, I guess."

Henry dropped the subject. He watched William work with Lucy and Jake and the new student, Paul Levesque's daughter Josie. William was, as he had always been, kind and patient, and he had a real talent for making the younger ones laugh. He knew there was still something very wrong with William, and something very wrong in the Riker household. He just couldn't put his finger on it, and he simply didn't know what to do next.

William's father was usually in his study when William had music lessons on Sunday afternoons, but on this particular Sunday, William's father was not at home. Henry was upset; William wouldn't even be eight until August; even in the parkland there were rules about young children being left unsupervised.

William let him in, and Henry said, "Is Auntie Tasya here?"

"No," William answered. "When my father leaves for his job, then Mrs S stays with me." William followed Henry into the living room, and watched Henry unload his briefcase with the metronome and the sheet music. "Why do you call her Auntie Tasya?" William asked. "I don't."

Henry sighed. "Isn't she your Auntie Tasya?"

"No," William said. "Dad says I have to call her Mrs S at least."

"I thought – " but William's face was closed. "Let's do your exercises, Will," and Henry started the metronome.

William sat down at the piano and began his fingering exercises.

"Warmed up?" Henry asked when William was done.

William nodded.

"Play the étude then," Henry said, and he listened carefully as William's long fingers glided over the keys.

William finished and waited for Henry to say something. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

For the first time in several weeks, he sounded anxious and unsure.

"Of course not, Will," Henry responded. "I can hear you've been practising."

"Dad doesn't mind me practising," William said. "I usually practise before baseball."

"Does your father drive you to practise?" Henry placed the next piece of music on the piano. "Let's try this out," he said.

"Okay." William glanced up at Henry, and Henry found himself wondering just what the child was thinking. "I ride my bike with Matt and Rosie."

William tried the first few measures.

"Here," Henry said, and he played first the melody and then added the left hand.

"Okay," William said, and he copied Henry.

"Go ahead," Henry said, and he listened as William picked his way through the piece. "Now try it again."

William played the piece, and grinned at Henry when he'd finished, a real grin, the first one Henry had seen in a while.

"Where is your father?" Henry asked. "Play it again, all the way through."

William shrugged. "Out," he said. "He's leaving next week."

"Why did he leave you alone?" Henry asked when William had finished the piece for the second time.

"He knew you were coming, I guess," William answered. "I'm not allowed to leave the house when he's out."

"And you don't?" Henry asked.

William was still, and then he said, "I don't do stuff like that anymore."

Henry made eye contact with William. "Will, you don't do stuff like what anymore?" he asked.

"I don't," William said, "do stuff like disobey my father anymore."

There it was. Henry was certain of it. Nothing had really changed in the Riker household.

"Most kids do stuff sometimes, Will," Henry said. "It's part of growing up. Making mistakes and learning from them. Like when you practise on the piano."

"Making mistakes hurts," William said. "So I don't make them anymore."

Henry said, "Is your father hurting you, William?"

William looked directly at Henry but his face had an oddly mature look to it. Henry found it very uncomfortable, and he looked away.

"Not anymore," William said.

Henry pulled himself together. He was, after all, the adult in this situation. "Would you tell me, Will, if your father was hurting you?"

William slid off the piano bench. "Should I get my trombone?" he asked.

"I asked you a question, Will," Henry said.

"I don't understand," William said. "Are you asking if he spanks me? Sometimes he does, when I deserve it."

"I thought you said you didn't make mistakes anymore." Henry reached out to touch William's shoulder, but William stepped back, away from his hand.

William said, "Well, sometimes I still do. I forget chores, still, sometimes."

"Most parents don't spank their children anymore, Will," Henry said. "I'm not even sure the Federation allows it."

"Well, they must, since my father works for them. I'll get my trombone," and William headed up the stairs to his room.

Henry watched him, and was convinced that the child was lying. He was protecting his father, it seemed. He'd read somewhere that often an abused child would protect the abuser. William came down the stairs, carrying the trombone that, even though it was child-sized, still looked enormous. William got his music stand from the hall closet, and pulled his music from inside of the piano bench. He took the mouthpiece and blew into it several times and then proceeded to warm up.

"Good embouchure, Will," Henry said. "Arpeggios, and then the étude."

William took out the music and set it on the stand. Henry listened to him play, and the rest of the music lesson went by uneventfully.

"You're doing very well on both instruments," Henry said, finally. "Good work."

"Thanks," William said. "It's fun, like playing baseball."

"Good," Henry said. "I'm glad you're having some fun, Will. Kids are meant to have fun."

"Yeah," William agreed, and Henry was absolutely convinced that he was being sold something. "This'll be a good summer. Dad's taking me fishing for my birthday and I bet we win the championship again this year."

The door opened and Kyle Riker walked in. Again, Henry was amazed that the two were related; there was nothing about Will that suggested his father.

"Having a good lesson, Billy?" Riker said. He was carrying a portfolio and he nodded to Henry as he walked through the living room to his office. "Chief," he said.

"He's doing very well," Henry said. "But it's just Henry, now."

William had become very still. Riker didn't seem to notice, and disappeared into his office.

Henry bent down and looked into William's face. "I want you to tell me, Will," he said, "if he hurts you."

"He doesn't hurt me anymore," William whispered.

"But you'll tell me?" Henry persisted. "I want to help you, Will."

He watched as something like indecision flickered across William's face, but when William looked up, it was anger Henry saw.

"There's nothing to tell," William said. "I told you already. I don't make mistakes, so I don't get hurt."

Henry watched the boy put away his instrument and carry it back up the stairs. Riker came out of his study.

"Everything okay?" he asked, and Henry finally caught the similarity – he was being sold something – only this time by the father, not the son.

"Fine," Henry said, packing up. "He's a good boy, your son. Very talented. He could be a professional one day, if that's what he wanted."

"If you say so," Riker said. "He has his heart set on Starfleet."

Henry smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. "Plenty of opportunities to play on a starship," he said. "I always did. Good afternoon, Mr Riker."

Riker walked him to the door. "Thank you again, Chief," he said, and as he shut the door, Henry was sure that the fun part of Will's afternoon was over.

There didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do about it, though.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

When I awoke it was dark. I was curled into Jean-Luc and he had thrown one arm over me. I didn't know what had awakened me but I could feel my heart racing and I could tell I wasn't breathing right. I didn't remember any dreams and this wasn't a night terror – I hadn't had any of those since Beverly had upped the medication – nevertheless, something apparently had startled me (is that the word I wanted?) and now I was wide awake.

I slid out from underneath Jean-Luc's arm and he stirred but remained asleep, and I moved away, more on my bed than next to his. I tried to concentrate on bringing my breathing down but I couldn't alleviate the feeling of dread that was threatening to overwhelm me. I didn't know what had awakened me but I was alert and almost, it seemed, ready for an attack.

Yet there was nothing that would warrant this. Sickbay was quiet. I could hear the muffled voices of one of the night orderlies and Lt Fisk. I was sure Dr Sandoval was in his office and that Stoch was at his post. There was absolutely nothing that I could discern that would cause this kind of reaction. We were still in orbit around SB 515. Jean-Luc had said we would be here another forty-eight hours as part of setting up Dr McBride's program. What new orders he'd received he hadn't told me, nor was he likely to; I'd asked, but he'd simply ignored my request. I wasn't privy to that information while on sick leave and I knew it. I also knew that I shouldn't use our relationship to get information from him that he wouldn't normally give, so I'd dropped the subject.

So there was nothing, and yet I was still breathing hard and shallow, and the hairs were standing up on my arms and the back of my neck, and my mind felt both sharply focused and fuzzy at the same time, as if there was something (once again) that I was forgetting.

Maybe, I thought, I should just go to the head, and get a drink of water from Stoch, and wash my face, and that would distract me enough from whatever it was that was bothering me now. It seemed like a plan of action, and I didn't want to stay in the bed and continue to hyperventilate. I was sure to wake the captain that way, and he'd been kept from sleep enough by me. I didn't need to continue to make things difficult for him.

Quietly I got up and waited a moment to make sure I wasn't dizzy before I walked to the door and opened it. Stoch was standing at his post, and he heard me open the door and came to attention.

"Do you need help, sir?" he asked quietly.

"I'm just using the head," I answered, slipping outside the door.

"Can you walk?" he asked, preparing to steady me, but I refused his hand.

"I'm good," I said.

I realised that, of course, he would have to come with me, which was awkward, as I wouldn't have minded cleaning myself up a little bit more thoroughly, but I would have to wait until morning, I guessed, when I took a shower. I wasn't going to shower now. He followed me into the head and turned his back to me so I could have the small bit of privacy I was allowed to urinate. I washed my face and hands and dried them.

"Could I have some water?" I asked as we left the head.

"Of course, sir," Stoch said, and he waved one of the orderlies over, and I was brought a cup so I could drink.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" Stoch asked. "Are you in pain?"

Was I in pain? I thought for a moment.

"No," I said. "I'm okay." I glanced at my hand, noting that the swelling had gone down. My left arm was a little tight, probably because I'd been sleeping on it. "I just woke up, that's all."

"Do you want me to get Dr Sandoval?" he pressed.

I remembered that I'd promised I'd ask for a sedative if I needed one. I could still feel my heart racing, although my breathing was better.

"Yes," I said.

Stoch walked over to Beverly's office and knocked; Sandoval opened the door and he and Lt Fisk came out.

"Commander Riker needs you, sir," Stoch said.

"What's wrong, Commander?" Sandoval asked.

"I woke up," I said, "and I don't think I can get back to sleep."

Lt Fisk was already taking my vitals. "His blood pressure is up," he announced, "pulse rate accelerated, breathing rapid."

"Do you know what precipitated this, Commander?" Sandoval queried.

"No," I answered. This was sure to wake the captain, and I could feel my frustration building. "I just woke up like this. I don't," I said, "want to wake the captain – "

"I'm afraid that's already occurred, Number One." Jean-Luc was standing in the doorway.

I glanced at Jean-Luc, took in how exhausted he looked, and felt as if I would implode. "I don't understand," I said, "how this one shift can be so damned inefficient – all I did was go to the head and ask for a sedative – and it has to be a fucking three-ring circus – "

"That is quite enough," the captain said, "Mr Riker."

"But they woke you –" I protested.

He put his hand on my arm. "Mr Stoch," he said. "Escort the commander to bed. Doctor, I trust you will actually give him the sedative? I am going to the head, and when I enter your room, Number One, I want you calm. Are we all of us clear on this?"

"Aye, sir," Stoch and Dr Sandoval chorused.

"The sedative will lower his blood pressure, Lieutenant?" the captain asked.

"Aye, sir," Fisk answered.

I said, before I could stop myself, "It would probably be better, sir, if you spent tomorrow night in your quarters, seeing as how I somehow manage to prevent you from sleeping every night." As soon as I'd said it I realised that I hadn't said what I'd wanted to say – or it hadn't come out the way I wanted it to - the look Jean-Luc gave me made me want to sink into the floor, and I could feel myself start to shake.

"Now would be a good time," Jean-Luc said, "to give him the sedative. Before he says anything else he wishes he hadn't said." He turned around and disappeared into the head.

Neither Sandoval or Fisk were anywhere near my height, so it was Stoch who gave me the hypo spray, and it was Stoch who walked me – literally walked me, as I didn't think I could stand up anymore – back into my room and helped me into the bed.

"He's having a panic attack," Fisk said.

"I'm preparing another dose," I heard Sandoval say from outside.

Da Costa must have spent some time training Stoch, because he wrapped his arms around me, the way da Costa would have, and said, "You know you don't have to be this upset, Commander. You told me so yourself. The captain's just tired. He's not angry with you."

"I know he's tired," I said angrily. "It's my fault he's tired."

Dr Sandoval entered and applied another hypo spray.

"This should help ease your anxiety, Commander," he said. "Try to take some deep breaths. I know Counsellor Troi has been working with your breathing. Breathe in now, deep cleansing breath."

I let him talk me through some breathing, but I honestly didn't see how it would make much difference. I wasn't so much panicking as just wishing I were fucking dead.

Jean-Luc came in, and he said, "He's had what he needs?"

"The medication should be kicking in shortly," Sandoval said. "In about another five minutes."

"And he'll sleep, then?"

"Jean-Luc –" I began.

"Did I give you permission to speak?" he asked, glancing at me. "Mr Stoch, you can let him go now, unless you think he's going to launch himself at me."

The unfairness of that hit me in the pit of my stomach and I said, "I'm not going to do anything, sir."

"Good," the captain said. "Then I suggest Mr Riker's three-ring circus remove itself from our room, as I would like to go back to bed."

"Aye, sir," Dr Sandoval said, and he and Lt Fisk walked out.

Mr Stoch let go of me and stood up. "Sir," he said, and then he left too, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Lights, ten percent," Jean-Luc said, and he climbed into his side of the bed. He was quiet, and then he said, "Don't you have enough to worry about, William, without making it your business to worry about whether I am functioning or not?"

I didn't say anything, but lowered myself down onto the pillow. It seemed he was waiting for me to say something, so I said, "Sir."

He sighed. "It is Mr Data's job to worry about whether I am functioning at capacity, not yours."

I turned over on my side. "I'm sorry, sir," I said. "I forgot. I won't, again."

He sighed again. "Tell me," he said, "that you are not going to sulk."

"No, sir," I said, turning my face into the pillow, so that there wouldn't be any way for Jean-Luc to see that I was crying.

I heard him slide down under the covers.

"What was it that woke you?" he asked, then. "Will?"

"Sir," I said. "I don't know."

"Why are you still 'sirring' me?" he asked. "William?"

"Because I don't know when you want me to and when you don't," I said. "Because I don't want you to yell at me again."

"I don't believe I have ever yelled at you," he said. "Have I? Raised my voice to you?"

I didn't say anything. Obviously my definition of yelling and his were polar opposites.

"Will."

"There's no point," I said. "There's no point to anything. Please," I said, and there was no way now that I could hide that I was crying. "Just let the sedative work. It'll knock me out and I won't bother you anymore tonight."

"_Dieu du Ciel_," he said under his breath. "Will. Come here. Please." He paused, and then he placed his hand on my shoulder. "William. I understand you're frustrated –"

I said, "You don't understand anything."

"What don't I understand? Tell me," and he physically pulled me to him, so that my back was against his chest, and he slipped one arm underneath me.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Nothing does."

"Will. _Cheri_," he said, pulling me tighter. "You've had a long and difficult day. It was a difficult day for all of us. For me, too. You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. You're frustrated and you're frightened. I understand, Will, or at least, I'm trying to."

I felt – and this is what I didn't think anyone understood, especially not Jean-Luc, who was always so calm, and so cool, and so fucking collected, even in the face of someone in the same goddamned bed as he having a fucking meltdown – was that I was simply going to erupt, to implode, that the hysteria and the anger and the fear and all of it was just going to literally tear me into pieces, and I was crying so goddamned hard I could barely breathe, and I'd never done this before, ever, but I couldn't stop, I didn't know how to stop –

and Jean-Luc shouted, "Mr Stoch!"

and Stoch opened the door and said, "Dr Sandoval is coming, sir."

"Get McBride," Jean-Luc ordered. "Get him now."

"Aye, sir," Stoch said;

and I could feel Jean-Luc's arms around me, and I could hear myself saying, "I can't do this anymore, I can't, I can't take anymore of this, I just want it to stop," and I could feel Jean-Luc tightening his hold around me, and then my head was pounding, and I couldn't tell whether it was really hurting or whether I was remembering it hurting, but it was so painful and someone was screaming, and I heard Sandoval say,  
"Dr McBride and Dr Crusher are on their way."

"Just get Stoch to help me hold him," Jean-Luc said, and his voice sounded so far away, "I'm afraid he'll hurt himself."

"I've got him, Captain." Stoch was suddenly right beside me, and I could feel him holding me too, and I realised I was the one who was screaming.

"I was afraid this would happen," Dr McBride said in that calm voice of his. "Dr Crusher, you've got the medication now, that we can give to him?"

"We made it up this afternoon," I heard Beverly say, and then she said, "The two of you will have to hold him absolutely still. Good. This is going to hurt, Will," and I felt yet another hypo spray in my neck.

"William," Dr McBride said, "I know you are so very frightened, but we are here now, and you are safe. No one is going to hurt you here."

"I just want it to stop," I said. "I'm so tired. I just want it to stop."

"I know," Dr McBride said. "I think you can let him go now, Mr Stoch. Can someone please tell me what precipitated this?"

I felt Stoch release me, and Jean-Luc shifted a bit, so that I was still in his arms but not as tightly as before.

Stoch said, "Commander Riker woke up, and he was very anxious, but he didn't know what had wakened him. I took him to the head and he asked Dr Sandoval for a sedative."

"The commotion woke me," Jean-Luc said, and I could feel him sitting up, but he still kept one arm wrapped around me. "And that upset him even further."

"Then he had a panic attack," Dr Sandoval completed. "I gave him the sedative, and an anti-anxiety, but it didn't help."

"William," Dr McBride said, "do you think you are calm enough now to listen to me for a minute?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good. Do you think you could show me how you and Jean-Luc were when you woke up?"

"How we were sleeping?" I asked.

"Yes. Where was Jean-Luc?"

I rolled over. The lights were still dimmed, but I had to squint against them anyway. "He was in his bed," I said, "on his side."

"Captain, would you place yourself back in the bed?"

"Of course," Jean-Luc said.

"You were on your right side, facing Will?"

"Yes."

"And where were you, William?"

"Here," I said, and I moved up so that I was next to Jean-Luc.

"And that's the position you were in when you woke up?" McBride asked.

"Jean-Luc had one arm around me," I said.

"Would you put your arm around him, Captain?" McBride asked.

Jean-Luc placed his arm around me.

"Is that the right position, Will?"

"No," I said, and Jean-Luc moved his arm, and I could feel the weight of it pressing against me, and I couldn't breathe.

"And that," Dr McBride said, "was the trigger. No, don't move your arm, Jean-Luc, please. It's very important. Just lay very still."

I could feel myself choking and then I was crying again.

"William, I am going to talk to Billy now," Dr McBride said. "I don't want you to be frightened, all right?"

"I can't breathe," I said, and then, "Who's Billy?"

"Just keep your arm still, Jean-Luc. I know this is very difficult for you. We'll talk about this later. Try not to be too upset," Dr McBride said. "You've been handling this very, very well."

"I am coping," Jean-Luc said.

"Good. Billy," Dr McBride said, "what are you feeling right now?"

And I heard myself say, "I'm scared."

"I know you are," McBride agreed. "You are just a little boy and this shouldn't be happening, should it? What else are you feeling, Billy?"

"Trapped," I said. "I'm trapped."

"Of course you are," McBride said. "I'm so sorry, Billy, that you're trapped. It's been this way since you got home from the hospital, hasn't it? Every night?"

"Yes," Billy said.

"And you're too afraid to go back to your room?"

"Yes."

"He would hurt you if you did?"

"Yes."

"And you've been hurt so very much, haven't you," McBride soothed. "Too much for one little boy. I'm so sorry, Billy. I'm so sorry that I can't be there to help you."

"There's nobody here," Billy said, "there's nobody here who can help me. Nobody can ever help me."

"I know," McBride repeated. "But, Billy, do you think you would let me share something with you?"

"Okay."

"There won't be anyone to help you, Billy," McBride said softly. "Not for a very long time. You are trapped, as you said."

I could hear Billy sobbing.

"You are only seven," McBride continued, "and it won't be until you are fifteen that everything stops, and that seems so very far away to a little boy who has to go through every single day like this. But I promise you, Billy, it does stop. Your father goes away, and he doesn't come back. And your Auntie Tasya finally gets to take you home, and you will go to the Academy, and you won't be Billy anymore, you'll be William. And William does very well at the Academy, and he is a very fine Starfleet officer. Because, Billy," McBride said, "you are a very strong little boy. You are tough. You survive this. You play your music – and you're good at it – and you play sports – and you're good at that, too, Billy – and you fly your first solo flight. And you do this all in spite of what he does. And he can't stop you from doing this, Billy. You're stronger than he is. You're better than he is. You grow up and you never hurt anyone."

"It hurts," Billy said, but I was the one who said it.

"Yes, it hurts terribly," McBride answered, "because it wasn't safe for you to feel this pain, William, when you were Billy. Billy did what he could to be safe, so he hid his pain, and he stopped feeling. What you have felt tonight is what Billy couldn't feel."

"Why did he do this to me?" I asked. "What did I ever do?"

Jean-Luc moved his arm off me, and said quietly, "You did nothing. You had a right to a safe childhood."

I felt McBride sit down on the bed beside me, and he reached for my hand and took it. "There will never be an answer to that, William," he said, "because I expect even your father doesn't understand why he did what he did. Just know that it is what _he_ did, and not what _you_ did." He stood up, then, and said, "Perhaps Mr Stoch can help you wash your face, William, and help you fix up your bed for you."

Stoch helped me out of the bed, as I could barely stand, because whatever was in the medication that Beverly had given me was starting to kick in. Jean-Luc came over to me, and helped me in the chair, and then Stoch returned with a lukewarm rag to wash my face, and one of the orderlies came in and remade both our beds. Stoch helped me back in the bed, and stood beside me.

I lay back and closed my eyes, but I heard Jean-Luc say to McBride,

"Is this my fault, then?"

"Of course not, Captain," McBride said. "With this type of abuse, there are so many triggers. If your arm had laid a different way, this wouldn't have happened – tonight. But it might have happened in the morning, or tomorrow night. He is in the acute phase. Nearly everything is a trigger."

"I'm not doing more harm than good, then?" he asked. "I upset him so much, first by the trigger, and then when I heard him talking to Dr Sandoval."

"Captain, I promise you that I will debrief you in the morning," McBride answered. "William needs you. He does. It is extremely difficult to be the care giving partner of someone with this illness. It's traumatic for you, to watch someone you love be destroyed by this, and to learn the terrible things that happened to him. But you are helping him. I promise you that. William is very lucky to have you. Some of my patients have been completely abandoned."

Jean-Luc said, "I wish I could feel surer of myself. I seem to do nothing but hurt him."

I wanted to tell Jean-Luc that I was sorry that I'd made him feel that way, but the medication had almost paralysed me, and while I could hear what was being said, I didn't think I could respond to anything.

"He's tougher than you think," McBride said, and he sounded as if he were smiling. "We'll talk again in the morning. Can I get you something to help you sleep?"

"If you did that," Jean-Luc said, "I probably would sleep all day. I'll be all right. Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Captain," McBride said, and I heard the door close.

I felt Jean-Luc get into the bed, and I wanted to move closer to him, but I couldn't get myself to do anything.

"Are you still awake, Will?" Jean-Luc asked.

I opened my eyes and nodded.

"The medication is working now?" He brushed my hair out of my face.

"Yes," I said. "I don't think I can move."

"Do you want to be on your side, then?"

I nodded.

He said, "If you hadn't lost all that weight, I wouldn't be able to do this," and he rearranged me so that I was on my side, and he was spooning me. "Better, now?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. I could barely keep my eyes open.

He kissed the back of my neck. "Sleep, then," he said, and I could feel him relaxing.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," I said, but he was already asleep. I closed my eyes. I would tell him in the morning.


	34. Interlude: Seven

Interlude: Seven

Exhausted or not, Picard woke at precisely the same time he always woke, about an hour before his shift. He lay, briefly, with his eyes closed, listening to Will's ragged breathing next to him and the sounds of sickbay gearing up for the shift change, feeling the puffs of air from Will's breath on his neck. He stretched, and opened his eyes, glanced at Will, who was as close to him as he could possibly get, in what seemed to be his default position when they shared a bed. Still, it wasn't an unpleasant sensation, after so many years of sleeping alone; to have the large heat-generating furnace beside him that was Will. He'd forgotten to shut off the lights completely, so they were still on at ten percent, and in the dim light he could see Will's face, still swollen from the emotional outburst of the night, looking much younger than his thirty-odd years.

He still, despite the reassurances of McBride, felt responsible for Will's triggered response and his swift and unexpected descent into hysteria. Rationally, of course, he couldn't be blamed for the placement of his arm; he knew that. But he'd wanted so desperately to make Will feel better, to give him some pleasure in what had been two weeks of unremitting pain, that he'd gone against his own better judgment and had enjoyed it too, and, given the nature of the horrific memories that were tormenting Will, he couldn't help but feel certain that the placement of his arm was incidental to Will's reaction. Will was too fragile for intimacy, it was as simple as that; he'd known he was too fragile and he'd let his own desire, newly discovered and so powerful, overtake his common sense.

Instinct made him want to take Will in his arms, but he was worried that disturbing him while he was asleep might set off yet another terrifying memory. And yet if he left the bed, and Will woke while he was gone, he might see that as a further rejection – in the same way that he'd taken simple irritation at being awakened and transposed it into "yelling". He hadn't been yelling; of course he hadn't. He never yelled. He couldn't recall exactly what he'd said, but the result – having his indomitable first officer, the most affable of men – weep because of it had shaken him to his core.

He watched Will sleep, and he felt old and overwhelmed.

The noise of the shift change wakened him a second time. This time he was dismayed to learn that he'd overslept, something he didn't think he'd done since he was an ensign on the _Reliant_. He turned to Will, who was stirring beside him, and brushed Will's hair out of his eyes, a gesture he'd known he'd done before, and Will's blue eyes opened and he gave his trademark grin. Picard was suddenly overcome; he'd hurt the man, a man who was already suffering, and yet that same man's first reaction upon waking was to smile. He sublimated the instant desire he felt into affection, and he pulled Will to him and kissed him gently on the mouth. Will's response was, as always, sweet, and Picard held him, enjoying his still sleepy warmth.

"It's time to get up?" Will murmured against his chest.

"Indeed," Picard said softly, "I seem to have overslept."

Will had started to shake, and, worried, Picard pulled his face up, only to realise Will was laughing.

"I told you you would be a bad influence on me," Picard said. "Stop that, it's not nice."

"I am always nice," Will responded.

"Are you suggesting that I am not?" Picard asked gently, and he let Will rest his head on his chest and lightly ran his hands through Will's hair.

"No," Will answered, sighing.

"But I yelled at you last night," Picard reminded him, and kissed him on the top of his head.

Will lifted his head and his eyes were troubled. "I said, last night," he began tentatively, "that you didn't understand – I could try to explain what I meant, but I don't want to have another day like yesterday," he finished. "I don't want to be difficult."

"_Mon cher_," Picard said, "as I recall it, I was the one who was difficult for most of yesterday, not you." He tightened his arms around Will. "It appears they are allowing us to sleep. I would like you to explain, if you can, without upsetting yourself."

"Okay," Will said. He didn't bother looking up at Picard, just kept his head resting on Picard's chest. "I'll try to explain, but you have to promise me you'll be patient."

That smarted, justifiably so, Picard thought. "I promise to be patient," Picard said, and again kissed the top of his head by way of apology.

Will said, quietly, and Picard could feel his strain in the trembling of his hand that was bunching Picard's sleep shirt, "Dr McBride told you that my brain isn't working right? He used the word 'disordered' to me."

"Yes," Picard answered.

"It made me angry at first, when he said that," Will continued, "but he's right. My brain isn't working, not the way it used to. I'm not sure how I can explain it. When I – " he paused, and Picard felt him tremble, briefly, as if he were trying to maintain control, "—broke the mirror, and all the sherds of glass fell on the floor – " He stopped, as if he were unsure how to continue.

"Yes?" Picard prodded gently. "I remember."

Will said, "It's like that inside my head. As if my brain were in pieces. And the pieces don't talk to each other. They're separated, like the sherds of the mirror on the floor. So some things work sometimes and then at other times they don't. And nothing is connected anymore."

Picard said, not knowing what else to say, "I love you, Will."

"I know," Will said simply, "or at least I do right now. I'll probably forget, though."

"Then I will remind you," Picard said, "as I promised to."

"Yes," Will began, but then he added, "I was going to say something, but you ordered me not to talk about it."

"I have taken today off," Picard said, "so I can be here for you the whole day. So you don't have to worry about my duty to the ship. She is in capable hands at the moment, and we are where we are supposed to be."

Will sighed. "I think I can explain it this way," he said. "You talk to me as if I were still me. As if I were normal. And you expect me to answer you, and understand you, as if I were still normal. But you don't understand how hard it is for me, how hard I have to work, to try to understand what you want, and to answer you the way you want me to, the way I would have before. It wears me out, Jean-Luc. And sometimes – sometimes I don't understand at all, and then I have to guess, and when I guess wrong, you get mad at me, or it seems to me like you get mad at me. Because – " Will paused, and Picard could feel him gathering himself up, as if he were trying not to cry again, "I'm not me anymore. I don't know who I am. Sometimes you talk to me and it's not me who answers. This doesn't make any sense," he said, finally. "I don't seem to be able to explain it at all."

Picard held him close, and kissed him again. "It does make sense," he replied. "Dr McBride tried to explain this to me yesterday when we were in Ten Forward. So what can I do, _mon cher_? So that I'm not demanding from you what you can't give?"

"I don't know," Will said miserably. "That's part of the problem, I guess."

"Can you tell me, when you don't think you understand?" Picard asked.

"I don't know," Will repeated. "Half the time I don't even know when I don't understand."

"Oh, Will," Picard said. He held him tightly, and was rewarded by Will relaxing against him just a bit. "Dr McBride said he would speak to me this morning, I'm assuming after the treatment meeting. I'll talk to him about this then. I'm sure he will have a suggestion," Picard said firmly; he didn't really believe this, but he hoped Will did.

"Maybe," Will said doubtfully. "Am I going to this treatment meeting? I still don't have a schedule for today."

"Yes," Picard said, grateful there was something he could answer. "Yes to the treatment meeting. Yes, you will have your schedule – our schedule – then."

"You're on my schedule?" Will glanced up at him, and the anxiety seemed to have vanished from his eyes, to be replaced by what Picard had truly missed, his old mischief-making self. "In your hugs-and-kisses capacity or as the captain?" Will asked, and his mouth twitched.

Picard felt himself start to roll his eyes, and Will grinned. "I am sure, William," Picard said, mustering up some dignity simply to please Will, "that it will be as myself, not as your captain."

"Hugs and kisses it is," Will said, and Picard replied, fondly, "You have always been a very silly man."

There was a knock on the door, then, and Picard resisted the urge to untangle himself from Will – he would fight his innate desire for privacy, which he knew was merely a convenient cover for his own damned shyness – simply because he would not do anything which could hurt Will. So he took a deep breath and he said, "Come." He felt Will tense a bit, almost as if he'd expected Picard to do exactly what he'd resisted doing. He gave Will's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, just lightly, and he felt Will relax.

"Sir?" It was Joao da Costa, holding the door open a bit. "The treatment meeting will begin in forty minutes. And Guinan is here to meet with Commander Riker."

"Thank you, Mr da Costa," Picard replied.

"Sir," da Costa acknowledged, and he closed the door.

"Well, Number One," Picard said. "The day begins."

Picard showered first, while Will had his nutrition meeting with Guinan and Gwyn Otaka, and then accompanied Will to the shower, so that he could have the water shower that he preferred in relative privacy. He wasn't wearing his uniform, having given himself the day off, and Will was wearing the trousers and shirt da Costa had remembered to bring him. Picard leaned against the wall and watched Will finish dressing and comb his hair.

"You are in need of the services of Mr Mot, Number One," Picard said. "Your beard is looking Biblical."

"Good luck with that, sir," Will said, grinning. "I'm not allowed out of sickbay, and I've never seen Mr Mot outside of his domain."

"It's not that you're 'not allowed' out of sickbay, Will," Picard replied. "You really haven't been well enough to leave."

"For all I know," Will said, "the rest of the _Enterprise_ is merely a figment of my imagination."

"And thus have imagined us all?" Picard asked. He was trying, and only somewhat succeeding, not to laugh.

Will turned around and said, with just a hint of his old cheekiness, "I suppose I'm giving myself too much credit, sir."

"Indeed?" Picard kept his face blank and waited for the missile to be launched.

"I could never have _imagined_," Will said, as he edged towards the door, "that Captain Picard –" and he put that silly emphasis of his on the elongated "i" vowel, "—would accept the position of chief purveyor of hugs and kisses," and he ducked out of the head.

Picard was glad Will had left the room, as it wouldn't do his recovery any good to see that the target had struck home. He waited until his face was its normal colour again before he left the head, and he was still smiling when he saw Guinan.

"I'm glad to see you smiling, Picard," she remarked. "I heard it was a rough night."

"I'm learning," Picard said, "to simply accept the moments when he feels better, and to enjoy them."

"As McBride said," Guinan commented, "he is remarkably resilient."

"I don't know how much you know," Picard began, "but that he survived at all is a testament to his resiliency."

"And yet," Guinan said, and her demeanor became serious, "in order to live now, he has to learn to stop doing what he does best, which is surviving."

Picard said, "I'm not sure I understand."

"You can only survive so long," Guinan said. "Some of us can survive even for centuries. For Will, it's been thirty years, give or take a few. But surviving, Picard, is not living. Eventually the soul shrivels, the terror overwhelms, and you die." She glanced at Will's room, where he was apparently still meeting with Lt Otaka. "That's where Will is now."

"You speak from experience, my friend. What must Will do, if he is to live, but not survive?"

Guinan made eye contact with him and she said, "William must choose to thrive. It is the exact opposite of surviving."

"How does he do that?" Picard asked.

"Let's hope your friend McBride knows how to teach it to him," Guinan said. "He hasn't the time I had, to learn this lesson."

Picard remembered that old saying, of someone walking on his grave. "What do you know, Guinan?"

"I know that once the body and the brain begin to shut down, it's very hard to reverse the process," she replied. "One smoothie is not enough to halt what's already started."

Picard was silent. He was remembering a younger Will, beardless and full of hope and self-confidence, towering over even Worf. He said, "Dr McBride believes that he can help Will. I must believe that he can, if only so William will believe it."

'And I as well," Guinan said. "He has agreed to have another smoothie this morning, and he asked for an apple. He has requested what Dr Crusher says is 'comfort food' for his lunch."

"And what is that?" Picard asked curiously.

"A grilled cheese sandwich," Guinan said, and she smiled. "Something children eat, apparently."

"Perhaps," Picard said thoughtfully, "it was Billy who asked for that."

"If it was," Guinan answered, "then progress is truly being made. I won't stay for the treatment meeting, Picard. I'll let Gwyn do that. I have a smoothie to make, an apple to find, and to figure out how to make a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Make one for me too, Guinan," Picard said. "Billy and I can eat it together."

He watched as she left sickbay, stepping aside to allow McBride, and Deanna, and Lt Patel to enter. Beverly came out of her office, and Picard joined her in the medical conference room; Will arrived with Lt Otaka and took his seat between Deanna and Picard. Despite his earlier cheerfulness, Will's face showed signs of strain, and Picard noted that Will's hands were trembling. He gave Will a minute to sit down, and then he took Will's hand into his own, and held it. He saw Will relax, then, and he kept Will's hand in his.

He said, as Will bent his head in so that he could hear him over the noise of the pre-conference chatter, "I am keeping my promise to you." He kept his eyes focused on Will, hoping to see that Will indeed understood that which he was referencing.

"Every hour," Will answered, and he shifted his chair, just a little bit, closer to Picard's.

"Every hour," Picard agreed.

Will sighed, and Picard watched McBride get his papers in order, and so the treatment meeting began.


	35. Interlude: Eight

Interlude: Eight

Alasdair McBride found himself unable to sleep after he'd been called to sickbay to deal with the triggered hysteria of Commander Riker. He knew that from here on out, his days would be twelve to sixteen hours long, as they always were when he implemented his intensive program, and that he should, realistically, be getting as much sleep as he possibly could. But the complexity of Commander Riker's illness and the urgency required were perhaps a heavier burden than he had expected. He'd known, of course, when he was contacted by both Deanna Troi and the captain that Commander Riker was in crisis. Still, the extent of the crisis was a surprise, and he almost wished that Joao da Costa had had the gumption to have contacted him and given him a more realistic picture.

Well, that was so much water under the bridge, he thought, as he wandered his way through the ship until he came across the observation lounge. He entered, finding it dark and completely empty at this time of night, and so perfectly suited for his purposes. He set the lights at about fifty percent, placed his padd on one of the tables, and then stood and gazed at SB 515 below, where he'd spent the last fifteen years of his working life. He frequently used meditation techniques to solve problems, so he stood there at the window, and took a few cleansing breaths, and then proceeded to relax each muscle in his body. He scrolled through the variety of programs that he used, and decided to use a simple grounding exercise, to relax and the focus his mind on the problem at hand. He did this standing up, his eyes still looking at the starbase and the space around it down below, but his mind's eye was back on Betazed, in this mother's garden, listening to the sound of water tinkling into the pond and little stream that she'd created. He would be spending, he thought, about three months on this ship, and then, he decided, he would treat himself to a trip home. It was long past time. Young Joao, working with Counsellor Troi, would be perfectly set up to run his program, and he'd taken a six month leave of absence from his practise. Three months on this ship, he thought not a little wryly, and he would be more than ready for a small vacation home.

He turned away from the window, then, and seated himself at the table, and opened up the file on young Commander Riker. The latest documents were his own notes, taken by hand and then painfully transcribed into the padd. He'd found himself, once long ago, in a wartime situation in which computer setups were impossible, and had discovered, surprisingly, that his thoughts flowed better when he used the archaic writing paper and pen. It connected him, in a way that perhaps was a conceit, to the amazing doctors in his profession of centuries ago, and projected an image of mild eccentricity that made him less threatening to his patients and their families. So he wrote his notes out long hand, in perfectly formed archaic script, and then, when he didn't have the services of his secretary – as no doubt he wouldn't on this ship – transcribed them into the computer himself.

He glanced at his notes, written earlier in the evening – yesterday, it was now – which concerned Commander Riker's triggers and retrieved memory concerning mealtimes. He'd included his notes about Captain Picard's idea that the proprietor of Ten Forward, Guinan, should help Lt Otaka with Riker's mealtimes, and he'd also included Picard's concerns over Riker's inability to remember his relationship with his captain. Now he would have to add the latest trigger, and the information that Riker's personality was fragmenting into his younger self, and the concern that he'd either had, or could have, in the ensuing days, a psychotic break.

He wasn't ready to write those notes yet, though. He wanted to think about what had happened, and he wanted to think about the conversation that he needed to have with Captain Picard about his relationship with his first officer. There were concerns there, surely. Concerns on the part of the captain, and concerns of his own. He would schedule the meeting with Picard after the treatment meeting, which was to start at 0830, when Commander Riker would be working on visualisation with Deanna and then moving on into physical therapy with Lt Patel. It would not, he thought, be an easy meeting. It was clear that Picard was uncomfortable with the strength of his feelings for William Riker; that he worried, perhaps, that those feelings were compromising his role as captain of the ship; and that he also was anxious over the symbolic meaning of those feelings. After all, Riker was a young man, much younger than Picard, whose father had sexually traumatised him. That he should be having a sexual relationship with a much older man was cause for concern. That Riker was too ill to see that this was cause for concern only made it more serious. No, the conversation he was to have with Captain Picard would not be an easy one.

He left his notes and scrolled through his messages. There was a new one, dated from yesterday evening, from Deanna Troi, and he opened it. He read through it quickly, his fingers drumming absently on the table, and then sat back to digest the information. After Joao and Picard had talked Commander Riker through one of his triggered memories, the one which had seriously impaired his physical health by sending his blood pressure so high that the young man could have had a stroke, Picard had tasked Deanna and the acting first officer, the android Data, to research the memory to find out what was fact. Commander Riker remembered killing a child while he was in a psychiatric unit in his native Alaska, an incident that occurred when he was seven, almost eight years old. He'd read Deanna's transcript of the incident, along with Joao's notes. Riker had remembered deliberately, with premeditation, stabbing another child.

The records of this incident had been sealed by the Federation. Nevertheless, Lt Commander Data had managed to hack into the Federation archives, and Deanna had subsequently read and then forwarded on the material. Who exactly was Kyle Riker? McBride wondered. He was a minor diplomat and troubleshooter for the Federation, but that was surface only, clearly. What did Kyle Riker know – or what had he done – that the Federation would be complicit in the man's abuse of his child? He knew that Picard wanted him to continue the conversation with Kyle Riker that Picard had begun. He opened up a new document, and, since he didn't have his paper or his pen, began jotting notes and questions that would begin his background for his conversation with Kyle Riker.

He stopped after a few minutes. It was a beginning, after all. He needed to get Commander Riker into the program and on a schedule first before he could spend some time researching the father and preparing for his interview. Apparently Picard had received a request for an update on his son's status from the man. He would tell Picard what to say when he talked to him after the treatment meeting.

He opened the message and the documents from Deanna again, and this time he read slowly and carefully. William Riker had been admitted to ProvidenceHospital in Valdez, Alaska at the age of seven, suffering from hypothermia. The child had apparently attempted suicide by simply walking outside into the Alaskan winter and waiting to freeze to death. He had been rescued when his elementary school in the small village where he lived realised that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. He had been dropped off at the school by his uncle, Martin Shugak. Shugak apparently hadn't waited to see if young William would enter the school and William had not. Instead, he had left his backpack by the swings and then had vanished into the snow. He'd been found by Master Chief (retired) Henry Ivanov and medivac'd to ProvidenceHospital.

When the boy had recovered from hypothermia, he had been admitted to the Children's Psychiatric Unit at ProvidenceHospital. Because the boy had had previous emergency treatment and hospitalisations within the past year, it was suspected that abuse was the underlying cause of the boy's suicide attempt. However, as McBride read through the doctor's notes, this was never seriously dealt with while William was on the unit. Instead, there was a concentration on stabilising William's psychological state and diagnosing William's illness, with the idea that when Kyle Riker finally arrived back in Valdez from space, he would take the boy home.

McBride put the padd down and stood up again, turning back to the window. He was an intensely spiritual man, and he looked upon his practise as a mission, of sorts, of healing. His own family was multi-ethnic and multi-raced in origin. His grandfather McBride, a Scotsman who had found himself stationed on Betazed, had married a Betazoid woman. But his mother's family, also from Earth, was Scottish and Italian Jews. Technically that made him a Jew, something that had always amused him, as how many Betazoid Jews in the universe could there actually be, besides himself and his siblings? On a more serious note, however, he took the Jewish concept of _tikkun olam_ – repairing the universe by bringing together the sherds of light that had been fragmented – as his own. The evil in the universe always surprised him. The evil that had been done to young William Riker was unconscionable.

William had not murdered the child he'd stabbed, a nine-year-old boy named Christian Larsen. Most of the cuts he'd made were superficial, but there had been one cut to the boy's neck that had been deep and had caused a significant amount of bleeding, thus causing William, no doubt, to believe that he had in fact killed the boy. Both children had been treated at ProvidenceHospital for their injuries. Christian Larsen had received treatment for his stab wounds and an arterial repair. William Riker had received surgery for a broken nose, deviated septum, and fractured skull, which had occurred when one of the behaviour techs had literally smashed William's face into the floor, after seeing the damage that had been done to Christian Larsen. Christian Larsen had been released from the critical care unit and had been returned to the psychiatric unit. He was then treated by new staff, after the old staff had been terminated, and was placed with a foster family. Currently, Christian Larsen was still living in Alaska, only in Anchorage instead of Valdez. He was an associate professor at the university there.

McBride thought, _Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive_. Who had told Commander Riker that he had killed Christian Larsen? And why had no one told William Riker, once he was returned home to the care of his father, that Christian Larsen was still alive? And what had Christian Larsen done to have the boy William respond so violently to him, when William Riker was clearly not a violent person, not as a child nor as an adult? Riker's tendency was to direct violence against himself, as in the two suicide attempts so many years apart. He sighed, and returned to his seat, and closed out his padd. There was, he thought, an evil here, below the surface. There was a complicity in the abuse of William Riker which included the Federation and, perhaps even Starfleet. After all, the boy's mother had been a decorated Starfleet officer. And yet William the adult seemed to have no knowledge of who exactly his mother was. He seemed to have no knowledge of his family at all. In fact, even Captain Picard thought that William was alone in the universe, with only his abusive father as his sole living relative.

It did not, McBride thought, make much sense. And yet he would have to take all these differing strands, all these stories with their multiple points of view, and weave them into a narrative that would save young Commander William Riker from a premature death. No one had ever said that the practise of _tikkun olam_ was easy, just that it was a spiritual duty incumbent upon all Jews.

He hoped, however, as he realised how close it was to the start of Will Riker's first full day of treatment, that he had not been brought to Riker's case too late to gather up those sherds of light and turn them into something whole.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six

"Are we ready to get started?" McBride asked, looking around the table. "Commander Riker, you know everyone already, including Lt Patel? He will be your physical therapist."

I glanced at Jai Patel, and he nodded. "I know Lt Patel," I said. Actually, I knew him better than Lt Otaka; Jai frequently played clarinet for me in my swing band.

"Good," McBride said. He opened up the folder in front of him, and glanced down at the real paper he had there. "I know," he said, smiling, "that it's a little eccentric to be using paper, but I prefer to take my notes this way."

It was a good tactic to make everyone think he was a nice guy, I thought; it was one I used myself at these types of meetings, except that I usually told a slightly risqué joke.

"The purpose of a treatment meeting, Commander," McBride began, "is twofold. The primary purpose is to update the team on the status of the patient. You normally would not be expected to attend that sort of a treatment meeting. However, the purpose of this meeting is to familiarise everyone on your team with the intensive program that I have developed, including yourself, and to set your schedule, not only for today, but for the next two weeks. In two weeks we will have a reassessment meeting and at that point we will lay out the schedule for the following four to six weeks, depending on the progress that's been made. Do you have any questions so far?"

I looked down at the padd in front of me, which had several documents in a folder under my name, including today's schedule and a master schedule that was in spreadsheet form and covered the next six weeks of my life. I was used to having new information thrown at me on the bridge; used to making spot decisions that meant life or death for the people involved. Yet this particular piece of information was just sitting there, like when you have something in your throat that you can't swallow.

Six weeks. I'd already been on sick leave for two weeks, so that meant being on sick leave for two months. There was no way that Admiral Nechayev would approve a two-month sick leave without knowing the exact reason for it. What kind of reason had Jean-Luc manufactured? He'd told me he reported a "shipboard accident," but two months would require more specificity than that. He'd have to tell her. She'd be the one to categorise me as unfit for duty, and, since my relationship with her was awful at best, I doubted that I'd be considered fit for duty again.

"What is it, Will?" Deanna was sitting next to me, and of course, I was probably drowning her in anxiety.

Jean-Luc took my hand again, under the table, but didn't say anything. McBride was patiently waiting for me, as was everyone else at the table. Why couldn't I have just succeeded? I thought. It would have been so much easier on everyone.

"It's a long day," I said, "that's all. I'm not used to long days, anymore."

"Of course," Dr McBride said, and he was using that genial tone of voice again. "If you'll look more closely at the schedule, Commander, you'll see that we have taken that into account. There are several breaks for snacks or light meals, as well as a rest period, and there are ten minute pauses between each program. Commander Riker's concern is well-taken, however," he said to the team. "He is, as we all know, in a very fragile state, physically as well as emotionally. He needs the intensive form of my program, because he is in an acute crisis; the conundrum being, of course, that the acute crisis will make it difficult for him to be treated intensively. So what does this mean? Joao?" He turned to da Costa.

Da Costa said, "We proceed slowly. We rely on Dr Crusher, or Lt Ogawa, or other medical personnel, to check Commander Riker's vital signs at regular intervals. And we relay on Commander Riker himself, to tell us how he is feeling, as to whether or not we continue with a particular treatment. We don't," da Costa said, "allow the Commander the ability to halt his treatment when it's too uncomfortable for him to continue. However, we will not jeopardise Commander Riker's physical or emotional well-being during any portion of the treatment program."

"I hope that reassures you, Commander," McBride said. "I think you're familiar enough with Joao to know that you can trust him, and, of course, you're already at a level of trust with almost everyone else on your team."

Deanna said, looking at me, "Will – " but I saw Jean-Luc imperceptibly shake his head. I noticed that both Beverly and Dr McBride had seen the communication from Jean-Luc as well; however, neither of them said anything. I continued to look down at my padd and tried to concentrate on just controlling the trembling of my hands.

"Status report, Doctor," McBride said.

"Yesterday," Beverly said, and she was speaking in her command voice, "I informed the team that Commander Riker had reached a critical point in terms of his physical state. Namely, that he continues to be dehydrated, that he has lost twelve kilos since he was admitted to sickbay, and that he continues to refuse to eat. Changes needed to be made in his nutritional program, or Commander Riker would have to be placed back in the ICU to be treated for severe dehydration. Guinan has been brought on board to act as a liaison to address Mr Riker's psychological issues with food. Mr Otaka, do you have anything to report in that regard?"

This time I knew better than to look up. I could feel Deanna shifting in her seat next to me, as if my anxiety was a physical presence that was trying to consume her. Perhaps, I thought, it was – a physical presence. It was, according to Dr Crusher, literally consuming me. Guinan had warned me, yesterday, when she'd met with me – and I knew now that that's what that was, a meeting – that I was at a point where an intervention was going to be made. I glanced briefly at Beverly, and knew, that despite Guinan's assurances that she could make a difference for me if we worked this out together, that Beverly was about to pull rank as CMO. I felt the tension draining out of my shoulders. In a way, it was a relief.

"Commander Riker met with Guinan yesterday evening," Lt Otaka said. "She was able, according to Mr Stoch, to get the commander to drink a smoothie; that is, a drink that is made with yoghurt, milk, and fruit. Guinan explained the new program to him at that point. We met again this morning," Otaka continued, glancing at me, "and the meeting was productive. Commander Riker was willing to participate. He had another smoothie and a cup of water. He put in a request for a snack and for his lunch. Guinan is not at the meeting because she is preparing both the Commander's meals and organising her work at Ten Forward. She will return at the commander's lunch, and will speak to him about the evening meal at that point. In the meantime, I went over Dr McBride's nutritional information – some of it, anyway," and he smiled at me, "with Commander Riker, and he willingly took the vitamins and supplements I gave him."

"Nevertheless, before we begin this morning's program," Beverly said, "I am going to do a complete medical scan of Commander Riker. One smoothie – or even two – does not begin to address my medical concerns. If Commander Riker is dehydrated, he will have to receive fluids. There is no way that he can participate in any physical therapy or anything else if he is dehydrated."

"Absolutely," Dr McBride agreed. "That was my concern as well. So we will make that adjustment in the schedule."

"You will note, Doctor," the captain said quietly, "that progress has been made."

Beverly said, "Duly noted, sir."

"Good," McBride said, and I watched as he used an archaic gold pen to jot down notes on one of his many pieces of paper. "After the treatment meeting, Commander Riker will undergo a complete medical scan and we will notify all of the results when that is finished." He paused to take a sip of the water that had been placed next to him, and then he continued, "If you will look at the remainder of today's schedule, Commander."

I opened the document. "Yes," I said.

"The intensive program is divided into two basic components," he said. "We will deal with the physical and holistic aspects of your treatment in the morning. Your first session of the day will be working with Counsellor Troi on a variety of different visualisation techniques, to help prepare you for your day, and to give you the training that you will need in order to participate in other sessions. For example, when you are in the hyperbaric chamber, as Joao will explain to you, you may choose to sleep, or you may work on your visualisation and relaxation techniques. You will also be learning specific visualisation techniques from Counsellor Troi and me to help you with your intrusion therapy sessions. As Counsellor Troi has worked with you on this specifically before, I'm sure that you will find this session both pleasant and relaxing."

"What's intrusion therapy?" I asked.

"It is part of your Cognitive Behaviour Therapy program," McBride said. "I will be specifically teaching you how to manage your intrusive memories and flashbacks."

"Okay," I said. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and noted that my hands were trembling again.

"Status update, Counsellor?" McBride asked.

"Yesterday's work with Commander Riker went quite well," Deanna said. "He is not resisting either visualisation therapy or breathing exercises. However, he is extremely anxious now."

"Yes," Dr McBride said, "of course he is. Let's go ahead and take a brief break, so that Commander Riker can try to process some of the information he's learned."

I said to Deanna, trying not to sound too irritated, "I have an anxiety disorder. Of course I'm anxious."

"Will," Deanna said. "I wasn't criticising you. The team needs to know when you are struggling."

"Perhaps you shouldn't sit so close to me," I replied.

"Commander Riker," she said, and she was using her therapist voice, "you could be twelve decks away from me, and I would still be obligated to let the team know that you are extremely anxious."

I pushed back my chair, and felt the captain place a restraining hand on my arm. He stood up, and placed his other hand on my shoulder.

"Come, Number One," he said. "Let's take a little walk, shall we?"

He guided me out of the conference room, saying to da Costa, who had risen to follow us, "I have this, Mr da Costa."

He moved me into the head and shut the door. "Why don't you splash some water on your face?" he suggested. He angled himself away a bit, giving me just a little privacy.

I urinated, and washed my face and hands. "Do I have to go back in there?" I complained.

He opened the door, and I followed him out and into my room.

"You don't usually complain about anything, Will," he remarked. "You're very much like our friend Worf that way. What is it?"

"I read the schedule," I said. "I don't need it explained to me. At least not the morning part."

"And?"

I shrugged. "I'm going back into the biobed anyway, so what's the point?" I said.

"The point is to familiarise all of us with your treatment program," he answered. "Including you. Anyway," he said, "I'd like to hear what Mr da Costa has to say about the hyperbaric chamber."

"Well, good," I said. "You can go hear it, and I'll stay in here until Dr Crusher is ready for me. One of the orderlies can sit with me."

"I think," Jean-Luc said, "that maybe you should just let me hold you."

"I don't want you to hold me," I said. "I don't want anything, except to be left alone. And it looks like the only way that will happen is if I finally manage to kill myself."

"So we're back to that again," he said. "That's your default position, isn't it, when something's too difficult now? I'm afraid I'm not that easy to manipulate, William."

I sat down in the chair. He walked over to me, and stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, and he bent down and kissed my hair.

"You're not going to tell me what the real problem is?" he asked softly. "I can guess, I suppose, but I'd rather you tell me."

"I'm just overwhelmed," I said, finally.

He squeezed my shoulders. "Try again, Will."

I was silent. I was beginning to feel the pressure again, that feeling that I would just implode.

"You can't do this, Will," he said. "The only way I can help you – the only way we can help you – is if you tell me what is happening. Take a deep breath, _mon cher_, and tell me."

I tried to breathe.

"Would you like me to get Dr McBride? Will?" he asked. "Would you feel safer, telling him?"

"I don't feel unsafe with you," I said.

He sighed. "It seems to me, William, that whenever you threaten suicide to me, you're telling me that you feel unsafe."

There was nothing I could say to that. The door opened, and da Costa said,

"We're ready to begin again, sir."

Jean-Luc replied, "Would you ask Dr McBride to come in here, please, Mr da Costa?"

"Aye, sir."

McBride came in and shut the door. "Captain?" he said. "Mr Riker doesn't want to return to the meeting?"

Jean-Luc said, "He is upset, and he won't tell me what it is – although I have a good idea of what it is. He is refusing to return to the meeting. And we're back to the whole 'I wish I were dead" again." He turned to me. "I'm going to let you talk to Dr McBride, Will," he said. He started to leave.

"Jean-Luc," I said. I stood up.

"Yes?"

"You told me not to bring it up again," I said. "You ordered me not to."

"And in this case you should follow an order that was given to you last week, when I was angry and distressed?" he asked, returning to me. "Is that logical, do you think?"

"My brain doesn't do logical anymore," I said. "It doesn't do anything anymore."

"I assume, gentlemen," Dr McBride interjected, "that we are talking about the duration of William's treatment program?"

"Yes," Jean-Luc said. "I believe so."

"Sit down, William," McBride said. "Your looming over the both of us can be distracting."

I looked at him, surprised – he couldn't have been more than two inches shorter than I was – and saw that Jean-Luc looked quickly away at the floor, as if he were hiding a smile.

"Sir," I said automatically, and sat down.

"It was a surprise to you, William," McBride asked, "that we were talking about a program that would last anywhere from six to eight weeks?"

I sucked in my breath. "Yes," I said.

"And this has to do with Starfleet regulations, Captain?" McBride continued.

"Yes," Jean-Luc said. "My initial report to Starfleet indicated that Commander Riker was in an accident, a severe one, and that he was being placed on medical leave for treatment. I received an acknowledgment from the Admiralty on his change of status. That was last week."

"You did not tell Starfleet that he attempted suicide?" McBride said.

"You already know this," Jean-Luc replied. "I believe Dr Crusher told you, with Counsellor Troi's confirmation, the reasons why I sent this initial report. No, I did not tell the Admiralty what happened."

"And you have not reported Commander Riker's diagnosis?" McBride said.

"No," Jean-Luc answered shortly. "That is on what we call a 'need-to-know' basis. They don't need to know, unless they ask. They haven't asked."

"Ah," McBride said. "And when they do?"

"Then I tell them," Jean-Luc said simply. "The diagnosis, and that he's receiving your treatment."

"And the issue here is his career?" McBride asked.

"Yes," Jean-Luc said. "The diagnosis is a double-edged sword, still, I'm afraid. It's a treatable illness, according to you, and by definition. Starfleet cannot, by its own rules, dismiss someone for an illness that is treatable, or for a disability that does not impair function. My artificial heart, for example, did not cause me to be dismissed from service. And Mr LaForge was not prevented from attending the Academy, simply because he was born without sight."

"But - ?" McBride persisted.

"They can do other things," he answered. "Remove him from his post. Give him a posting that's less stressful. Promote him to a desk job," and he smiled, grimly. "A fate worse than death, to some of us."

"And would they do this, Captain, if they knew?"

"Admiral Nechayev would," I said. "She has made her opinions about me well-known."

"So you believe, if I am understanding this correctly," McBride said, "that a prolonged sick leave for Mr Riker – say the six-to-eight weeks of this intensive treatment program – would trigger an investigation by Starfleet into the commander's medical status, which would adversely affect his career and position as first officer on this ship?"

Jean-Luc shrugged. "There's no indication yet," he said, "that it will come to that."

And I said, "Yes. I will be relieved from my post. And maybe I should be," I continued, "as I don't believe that the flagship should be without a first officer for this length of time. But I have no where else to go," I said, and I sounded, to myself, like a little kid.

"And now we hear from Billy," McBride said. "Thank you, Captain, for explaining this to me. Let me speak with him alone, for a moment."

"Of course," Jean-Luc said. He walked over to me, and took my hands in his. "Will," he said. "You are anticipating something that may not happen. And I am not without influence." He pulled me to him and held me for a minute, then turned around and left my room.

"William." McBride pulled over the other chair, and sat across from me. "As I see it, you are struggling with two opposite feelings here. You are afraid you are no longer capable of doing your job, in the manner in which you are accustomed. You believe that your inability to perform your duty is endangering your captain – whom you love – and your ship, which you also love, and which you consider your home. Am I correct in this assessment?"

"Yes," I said. I could feel myself start to shake.

"Breathe, William," McBride said. "Take a deep breath. Talking about these issues is not going to hurt you, nor is it going to make anything bad happen. That's it, deep breath in. Hold it, now release. Again. Hold it, now release. One more time. That's it; you're doing fine, William. You won't lose control, young man," he said, "and if you do, I am right here to help you through it."

I could feel myself breathing again, but my hands were still trembling and I still felt that I was on the edge of the precipice, looking down.

"But you also have some hope, I think," he said. "You think that I may be able to help you. You think that the program may work. You know that you have your entire treatment team, people who have worked with you everyday for years, people who love you and who care about you, ready and willing to support you every step of the way. This is frightening, to have this hope, because in the past, hope has been taking away from you too many times. And you don't want to leave this ship, or your post. You are, according to your captain, and according to everyone else with whom I have spoken – your friends on this ship, for example, such as Mr Worf, and Mr LaForge, and Mr Data – one of the best first officers in all of Starfleet. And you are afraid that Starfleet, if it finds out that you are suffering from a serious psychiatric disorder, will take all this away from you."

"Yes," I said, looking down.

"So you want them to take it away from you, because it would be so good just to stop fighting," he said. "Because you've been fighting and struggling your whole life, ever since you were a baby, and you are so tired. So utterly tired."

"Yes." I wiped my eyes.

"The kind of tired where you just want to walk out into the snow, Billy, and lay down, and go to sleep," McBride said. "That kind of tired."

"Yes."

"But William," McBride said, "William doesn't want to do this. William has spent most of his life fighting to get what he needs, to get what he wants. William overcame tremendous odds to be where he is, on this ship, doing this job. He deserves to be here. He does good work here. And he doesn't want to give it up."

I said, "I don't want to give it up."

"In this program, William," McBride said softly, and he took my hands in his, the way Jean-Luc would, "I am going to put you back together, your two selves, Billy and William, and then I am going to give you the tools you need to be able to resolve this issue. You must trust me – and I know that you have only just met me, and the trust between us is just beginning – that I can, and will, do this. In the meantime," he said, "you must trust your captain to do what he does best. And that is protecting his ship and his crew. Which includes, William, the man he loves. You. As he says, he is not without influence. Nor is your friend Deanna, without influence, nor is Dr Crusher, without influence. There are some very important people here on this ship, and they are all behind you. I am asking you, William – not Billy, because I don't think Billy is capable of this, and so we are just going to have to console Billy when he becomes frightened – to let go of this issue for now. Let it go. Give it over to the people who can handle it for you, for now. You are not able to deal with this issue now. So let it go."

I looked at him. "You'll help me let it go?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Deanna and Joao and I will give you specific techniques to let go of these thoughts and worries, every time they intrude. I promise you that we can do that, and that our techniques will work."

"And you'll know how to – " I didn't really know how to say this "—keep my other self – Billy – from scaring me, and from being too scared himself?"

"He does frighten you, doesn't he?" McBride said. "Yes. We will work directly with Billy. That is my job, William. That is this disease. That is how it functions. That is what I do."

I suddenly remembered to breathe. "I can do this?"

"Of course you can," McBride said. "You defeated the Borg, remember? This will be a piece of cake to you." He smiled, and let go of my hands. "Come, Commander. The treatment team is waiting for both of us."

"Okay," I said, and I stood up.

Da Costa said, "Are we continuing the meeting, Doctor?"

"Of course we are," McBride answered, waiting for me. "Commander Riker and I are on our way."


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I followed McBride out of my room, back towards the conference room, but was stopped by da Costa before I could go in.

"Commander," he said, "I'd like you to sip some water while we're finishing up the meeting. And Lt Ogawa wanted you to know that Guinan sent over your snack, and it will be waiting for you in your room when we're done."

I started to say I wasn't hungry, but then I remembered what Guinan had told me yesterday, and again this morning. "Yeah," I said. "Okay, thanks," and I took the cup of water that da Costa was holding out to me.

Da Costa didn't say anything else, just followed me into the conference room. I took my seat between Jean-Luc and Deanna, who'd been having a conversation; Jean-Luc was engrossed, now, with Beverly and Lt Otaka.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," I said to Deanna.

She smiled. "It's all right, Will," she said. "You're handling this a lot better than I would ever have."

I thought about that for a minute, and then I grinned. "You'd be awful," I agreed. "You'd be all aristocratic on everyone. It would drive us all up the wall."

"Will," she said, drawing my name out the way she sometimes did when she didn't like what I had to say. "I am never aristocratic."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course not," I said, "oh great future holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx."

I saw Jai choke with laughter, as he'd had a number of opportunities; I guess you could call them, to play at functions where Deanna's mother had been in attendance. I heard Deanna mutter something not very nice under her breath, but before I could call her on it, Dr McBride cleared his throat, and then waited for Beverly and Otaka to take their seats.

Jean-Luc said to me quietly, "I see you're feeling a little bit better."

I nodded. "I don't know how to explain it," I said, "but there's something about him that seems to help me feel calmer."

"Good," Jean-Luc said. He took my hand for a moment. "If you feel anxious again, Will, please tell me or Deanna. Don't wait so long."

"Aye, sir," I said.

He gazed at me for a minute, his eyes dark, and then he said, "I'm still keeping my promise to you, Will."

I looked down at the padd in front of me, trying to maintain some semblance of control. I'd been an asshole to him; my emotions were all over the place; and yet he was still willing to tell me what he was saying to me now. I bit my lip, and felt him take my hand again.

"Will," he said. "Just nod your head if you understand."

I nodded, once. He pressed my hand lightly, and then let it go.

McBride said, "Let's get started, shall we? The next area of focus will be physical therapy, in the form of breathing retraining, with Lt Patel."

"Commander," Jai began, "if you'll look at your schedule, you'll see that you've got two pt sessions with me, about an hour and a half apart."

I reopened my documents and looked at my schedule. "Yes," I said.

"The first session is breathing retraining," Jai said. "I don't want you to confuse this with the breathing exercises that you've been doing, and will be doing, with Counsellor Troi, as part of your visualisation and relaxation therapy. As Dr McBride has no doubt already discussed with you, you are damaging your brain by breathing incorrectly. It's a cycle that's hard to break, Commander, because the anxiety and the incorrect breathing feed upon each other. In this session, I am going to reteach you how to physically breathe, so that you can break the anxiety cycle. I will also be teaching you techniques that you can use to help when certain situations arise, such as panic attacks and the hyperventilation associated with them." He waited a moment.

"Commander?" Dr McBride said. "Do you have any questions about this?"

"No," I said. I took a sip of water.

"Go ahead, then, Lieutenant," McBride said.

"Your second session with me will be working on strengthening your arms, particularly your flexor tendons, which you damaged. You've had physical therapy before, sir, so I'm sure you are aware of what this entails. I'll be working on your grip, endurance, strength recovery, and range of motion. This is all pretty straightforward," Jai finished.

"How many sessions are we talking about?" I asked. "And you're working both arms?"

"We'll start with the regulation twelve sessions, sir," Jai answered. "Yes, I'll be working with both arms. We'll work with your right arm first, though, sir, since you are right-handed."

I nodded. "Okay," I said. "As Lt Patel has said, I've been in pt before. I know what it's about."

"Good," McBride said. "We'll finish the morning with the update from Mr da Costa, on the hyperbaric chamber."

"The hyperbaric chamber is finished and ready," da Costa reported. "Commander LaForge and his team finished it two days ago. Commander Riker," he said, and he looked at me, "we've talked before about how there are cycles of damage. You are breathing incorrectly, so you are not receiving adequate oxygen to the brain. This exacerbates your symptoms of anxiety, which, in turn, causes you to breathe more incorrectly, and the cycle continues. Added to this is your recent head trauma, which occurred three weeks ago, and then the oxygen deprivation that you suffered when you nearly bled out. The treatment for an oxygen-deprived brain is the hyperbaric chamber. It's very similar to the biobed, in a way, and of course, to the old-fashioned magnetic resonance imaging scan of centuries ago. It's more or less a room, sir, with a bed. As you lay in the bed – either sleeping or perhaps using visualisation techniques – we increase the oxygen levels of the chamber, to compensate for the oxygen that you are not receiving. This extra oxygen helps your brain to do the work it needs to heal itself. We have found that daily forty minute sessions in the chamber, over a period of six to eight weeks, not only heal damaged neural pathways but also create new ones. Your brain function will increase, and you will begin to see results of the healing in about two weeks' time."

McBride said, "Of course this is very old technology, Commander. For some reason, we've gotten away from the old technology that worked, in our mad scramble to just build new everything –new organs, new limbs. The fact remains that one cannot build a new brain, or a new mind. So I've gone back to find technology that we inadvertently threw away, and the hyperbaric chamber has given remarkable results."

"So I just go to sleep and it does its magic stuff?" I asked.

McBride smiled. "Essentially," he agreed. "We give you the enriched oxygen. You rest. Your brain does all the work itself. Amazing."

"And Mr da Costa is in charge of this," I said.

"Yes. Mr da Costa has been specifically trained in the use of the hyperbaric chamber." McBride closed his folder. "This ends the morning session for Commander Riker. He has a bridge built in between the two sessions, morning and afternoon; namely, his midday meal and a rest period. It is very important – and I can't stress this enough, and I believe Dr Crusher will support me in this – that the team makes sure that Commander Riker, regardless of how he feels on any given day, take this ninety minute period off."

I said, without thinking, "So you're giving me lunch and a nap? Do I get story time too?"

McBride gave a genial smile, and Jai Patel laughed. I found my XO face and put it on; I was glad for them, really, that they thought this was funny, but I was sick of being infantilised.

Deanna said, lightly, "I'm sure Joao would read to you, Will, if you asked him," and when I glanced at her, I realised she was teasing both da Costa and me, the way she'd done before, when I'd taken her stupid tests, but, beneath that, she knew how I felt.

"I was planning," McBride said, "that we should go over the afternoon session, but I am cognizant of Dr Crusher's concerns. I think we should recess, for now, and allow Dr Crusher to take over Commander Riker's care. We can always reconvene after Mr Riker's treatment, if Dr Crusher gives us the okay."

"Thank you," Beverly said. "Mr da Costa, if you will take the commander and get him ready for the scan, I will set things up."

I sighed. I felt Jean-Luc rest his hand on my arm. "Come, Number One. Mr da Costa is waiting for you."

I walked out of the conference room with Jean-Luc beside me, followed by da Costa as we entered my room.

"Do I have to wear the hospital gown again?" I asked.

"Sir," da Costa said. "You can wear your robe, if you wish. I'll check with Lt Ogawa, but I'm sure that will be okay."

"Thanks," I said.

Jean-Luc sat down in his chair, and I perched on the edge of the bed.

"I know you feel as if we're treating you like a child," he said. "I remember feeling the exact same way, when I had my heart replaced….except," he said wryly, giving me that small smile of his, "I really still was a child, then. It's so much more offensive to you, being treated this way, when you're young."

"I'm almost forty," I said. "Hardly young."

"Compared to me," he said, shrugging.

Da Costa returned and said, "Dr Crusher said the robe was fine, sir."

"I'll stay with him for the moment, Mr da Costa," Jean-Luc said. "I'm sure there are things Dr Crusher needs you to do."

"Aye, sir." He left.

I said, "It's not so much that I'm being infantilised by everyone, although I am. I've been injured and here before, I know what it's like. It's just that my emotions are all over the place. One minute I'm feeling okay and then I'm angry, or I'm goddamned weeping – it's not me. I'm not like this. I used to be so easy-going. Now I'm just a fucking basket case." I looked at Jean-Luc and gave a half-grin, "Sorry, sir. I can't even seem to control my mouth anymore."

"It's not as if I haven't heard it before," he said, "or as if I didn't know."

"But I'm usually professional," I said, "especially around you – and I seem to have lost the knack, now."

"You must remember, Will," he said, standing up and wrapping his arms around me in one fluid motion, "that I'm here as Jean-Luc, not the captain. I'm not objecting to the substance of what you're saying. And I have been known, when the occasion warrants it, to say a few choice words myself."

I grinned, letting him rub my back, and said, "Yeah, but it sounds so much more dignified in French, sir."

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Shit is still shit, Number One, in any language," he said.

"I'd better get undressed," I said, "or Beverly will be in here demanding my head."

He let me go. "We wouldn't want that. She has a terrible temper."

The She-in-question stuck her head in the door. "I heard that, Jean-Luc," she said. "Come on, Will. We're waiting for you."

"Sir," I said, still grinning. "It's the red hair."

"Indeed," Jean-Luc agreed.

"I still control the hypo sprays, Mr Riker," Beverly said.

"Aye, sir," I answered, getting up.

I stripped down and wrapped my robe around me.

"Wait, Will," Jean-Luc said.

"What?" I walked back over to him.

"Come," he said, and he pulled my face down and kissed me. "Just reminding you," he said, when he let me go. "I'll walk out with you."

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

"I believe Dr McBride wants to speak with me," he answered. "Otherwise, I'll be here, if you need me."

I nodded, and walked into the treatment room, where Beverly, Ogawa, and da Costa were already waiting for me. I handed da Costa my robe, and he helped me into the biobed.

"This will take about fifteen minutes, Will," Beverly said. "We'll go ahead and give you the fluids, depending on the results."

Ogawa came over and gave me a hypo spray.

"What was that for?" I asked.

Beverly grinned. "Just to help you relax, Will," she said.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not the one who said it, Jean-Luc did."

"You," she remarked, "agreed."

I heard Ogawa giggle – and then I felt my eyes start to close. I heard da Costa say, "I'll be right here with you, Commander. You just rest."

It was happening again. I couldn't breathe, I could feel something against my mouth, maybe it was a blanket, and then I remembered, I'd had this dream before. It was a blanket, being pressed against my face, and I could smell that moist woolly smell, and a faint scent of mothballs, and I couldn't breathe; the wool was in my mouth, and in my nostrils; and my chest hurt, and then I was struggling, and someone was holding me down; then I was choking. I was choking on something, there was something preventing me from swallowing, and the blanket was wrapped around my face; and then I was back in a dream, and I was hiding, and it was small and dark and it smelled like mothballs, and somehow the blanket was there too, being pressed against my mouth, and I kept trying to breathe and all that I could inhale were the wet woolly fibres of the blanket. I couldn't breathe. My chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe.


	38. Interlude: Nine

Interlude: Nine

Picard had had the feeling, as he'd listened to Dr McBride and the various members of Will's treatment team talk about the components of Will's treatment, that Will was struggling. There was no basis for this feeling. Will was asking questions – and occasionally answering them – with a certain presence of mind which indicated that he was listening and understanding what was being said. He'd been upset, of course, when he realised just how long the program would be – and what that might mean, in terms of his career – but he'd also indicated that he'd been calmed, somewhat, by the information that Dr McBride had given him. He'd heard Will apologise to Deanna and then participate in some gentle teasing with her; he'd realised immediately when Will had taken offense at the idea that he would be given time to have lunch and a nap, as he'd put it. That, too, had been easily diffused, by both Deanna and himself. And Will hadn't made a fuss about going back into the biobed for a medical scan and fluids.

So there was no real reason to feel uneasy, and yet he did. He'd let Will go into the treatment room, where he would be watched over by the omnipresent and reliable Mr da Costa, and where he would be more than adequately treated by Beverly and Alyssa Ogawa. And yet….Picard had been a Starfleet captain for more years than he cared to remember. He knew his crew; he knew his ship. More importantly, he knew Will. Something was amiss. He sighed. He would just have to trust that Beverly would find it, whatever it was.

"Captain Picard," Alasdair McBride said.

Picard turned away from watching Will and said, "Yes."

"I'd like to have our meeting now, while Commander Riker is otherwise occupied."

"Yes," Picard agreed.

"I have not gotten my new office space completely set up yet," McBride continued. "It will likely be finished tomorrow, half-day, so Deanna has suggested I use her office. Would that be acceptable to you? I'd like to move us out of sickbay, if possible. Less distractions."

Picard hadn't expected this, so he took a moment to think. He didn't like the idea of leaving Will – there was something there, he didn't know what – but McBride was right, that this interview might be better off in a more neutral space. Which meant, of course, that his own ready room was out as well.

"Of course, Doctor," he consented. "A good idea."

He stopped the orderly Tekka and explained that he would be in Troi's office for a meeting with Dr McBride.

"I'll make sure Dr Crusher knows, sir," Tekka said in his lilting voice.

"Mr da Costa already knows, Captain," McBride offered, before he could add anything to his orders to Mr Tekka. "He'll tell William, if he asks."

Picard nodded, noting that McBride had dropped Will's title. It was uncanny how McBride could sense the difference between his professional concern and the personal; almost, Picard thought, as he watched him loping beside him, in the same manner that Will walked – the walk of tall men, he guessed – almost as if McBride were an empath, in the same way Deanna was.

It would make sense, he decided. Even though McBride was only one-quarter Betazoid, it was through the matrilineal line that empathy passed, and it was his grandmother who was part of Betazed's ruling elite, in the same capacity as Deanna's mother and her family. It would explain the reason why he had such a calming effect on Will. Perhaps Will's bond with Deanna made him more open to others with the same abilities. He would ask, he thought. It would be good to know.

At the turbo lift Picard stood aside, to allow McBride to enter, and then stepped in and said, "Deck Eight."

"You are worried, I think," McBride commented.

Empath or psychological tells? Picard wondered. "I am." Picard felt no need to be anything less than open. This meeting – and whatever it entailed – was about Will; it was not about him.

"About our meeting or about William?" McBride asked.

"Both," Picard answered.

The turbo lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Picard waited for McBride to step forward, and then he followed. They walked down the corridor to Troi's office and McBride keyed in the access code. The doors opened, and Picard followed McBride in. Clearly Deanna had anticipated this use of her office – the lights were on; she had set out a tray and mugs for tea, should he so desire it.

Picard took his seat, giving McBride access to the "therapist's" chair that Deanna used when she was working.

"You drink tea, I assume, Captain?" McBride said, heading over to the replicator.

Picard thought briefly that therapists, whether they were counsellors or psychiatrists, were essentially all alike. "You'll find that a decent Earl Grey is already programmed," he said. "It will make you a pot."

"Lovely," McBride responded. "One pot of Earl Grey."

"Hot," Picard said.

"Cancel that," McBride grinned. "We'll try again. One pot of Earl Grey, hot."

A rather utilitarian-looking pot of tea appeared and McBride laughed delightedly.

"No tea cozy, I'm afraid, Doctor," Picard said as McBride brought the pot over.

"We can't have everything," McBride replied.

He poured out, and Picard took his mug and inhaled it, then sipped.

"Ah, you take yours plain," McBride said. "A brave man. My grandmother made me mine, I'm afraid, so I grew up drinking it the way she drank hers, milky with too much sugar." He went back to the replicator and returned with both the milk and the sugar, then stirred it into his mug.

"We have that in common, then," Picard replied. "Except that my grandmother was an austere _grande dame_ who believed that adding milk and sugar to her tea was a sign of weakness. My brother thought she was dreadful, but I admired her strength and her tenacity."

"Tell me a little about your family, Captain," McBride said, setting his mug down on Deanna's coffee table. "I really haven't had much of a chance to get to know you."

Picard sipped his tea and wondered if that meant that McBride hadn't realised he would need to research the captain of the _Enterprise_ in order to help its first officer; Will had told him that McBride had asked about their relationship, even though he was sure that Troi would have already said something, before that first session.

Picard shrugged. "There's not much to know," he said. "I was born in LaBarre, France, to a rather traditional family. My family were and are vintners. My father, his father, and now my brother, produce some rather good wine. Table reds, mostly. We lived there on the family land. Growing up it was my parents, my brother, and my grandmother – my mother's parents had their own home."

"Your brother?" McBride asked.

"Robert?" Picard said. "He's older. Married, with a son, my nephew, René. He took over the business when my father died."

"And you had no interest in the vineyards?"

"No." Picard set his mug down. "My interest was always in the stars."

"So yours was the traditional path of the Starfleet officer, then?" McBride asked. "My grandfather, Malcolm McBride, was a Starfleet officer. He was stationed on Betazed, met my grandmother, retired there."

"In the same way Commander Riker met Counsellor Troi," Picard said, "when he was stationed on Betazed." Picard paused. "You could say I took the traditional path, although I've been part of the diplomatic corps as well."

"Which, undoubtedly," McBride said, "is why you were chosen to captain the flagship."

"Perhaps," Picard said.

"You have a great deal invested in your career and this captaincy," McBride remarked. "Where does William Riker fit in all of this?"

Picard felt himself tense, and he automatically reached for his mug and took a sip. This is not about me, he thought, rather sternly. This is about Will. And then he thought, We don't have much time, and he felt his control slip just a bit. He stiffened his shoulders and wrung it back.

"In which regard?" Picard asked. "As the first officer of this ship? Or personally?"

"Why don't you begin with when William Riker became part of your ship," McBride answered.

"Surely you've researched this," Picard said. "You've had the information on Commander Riker for some time."

McBride picked up his mug and sipped his tea. "Of course I have, Captain," he said, in the same genial tone of voice he'd used with Will. "I'd like to hear it from you."

Picard felt wrong-footed here for the first time, and he hated feeling wrong-footed. He said, "And the purpose of this being -?"

"Ah," McBride said. "You asked me, last night, if you were doing more harm than good, in terms of William's psychological and emotional health. I understand, Captain, that you are an extremely private man. Your reputation for reserve is rather well-known. So I was more than a little surprised to find out that you were in a relationship with William Riker – having been apprised of this by Counsellor Troi before you arrived here – and then, seeing how willing you are to forego your rather famous reserve – "

McBride smiled here "—in an effort to be present for William in the way he needs you to be."

"I thought," Picard said, "that we were here to discuss Will."

"And we are," McBride responded. "Let me ask you this, then – at the risk of sounding as if I'm from a nineteenth-century romance novel. What are your intentions toward William Riker?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Picard asked, testily.

"Captain," McBride said. "Jean-Luc. I am here to treat William Riker for a serious, life-threatening illness. You are a very important part of his emotional well-being. In the two days that I have been on this ship, I have watched him turn to you time and time again for support and solace as he battles this disease. I have watched you treat him with great kindness and respect; with love and physical affection. I have seen you handle his confusion, his mood swings, and his hysteria with aplomb. My assumption is, as the treating psychiatrist for William Riker, that you are the care giving partner in his life." McBride paused, and then he said, leaning somewhat forward, "_If_ you are the care giving partner in his life, then the therapeutic relationship that I have with William extends to you. You are in almost as much pain right now as William is. You doubt your ability to help him. You doubt your ability to provide him with the love and strength he needs. You doubt your ability to provide him what he needs and captain the flagship of Starfleet at the same time. You are worried that Starfleet will step in and take away your ability to protect him. You worry that Starfleet will send you on assignment that will be dangerous, when you don't have your first officer in place. You worry," McBride said in a very calm voice, "that you are no better than Kyle Riker was."

Picard felt the shock of that last statement right in the pit of his stomach, and he reacted, as he always did, with great personal stillness. He relaxed his hands and reached for his mug. He took a sip of tea. He inhaled the aroma and allowed it to find his centre. He watched McBride sitting there watching him. He replayed in his mind what McBride had just said. This was about him – and how he affected Will. This was about Will – and what he needed. And what about, Picard thought, what I need?

The silence deepened, and Picard let it. He would think this through, and then he would respond. He thought about when he'd called Will into his office; how he'd challenged Will with the knowledge that he knew how Will felt about him and then he'd offered, casually almost, love and affection in return. As if it were so simple. Give Will the affection he craved – out of his own magnanimous compassion – and Will would get better….The Picard cure.

McBride seemed perfectly content to let him struggle with this, and Picard realised what a gift the man had. He'd already figured Picard out. Now he would wait and see if Picard would be able to do it for himself.

Which was the more important question? he wondered. What did he need – or what did Will need? Perhaps, he thought, it was the same thing. He remembered Will's cheekiness in the mornings that they'd shared together; how it had completely changed the tenor of his day to have awakened beside Will, to have been able to take him in his arms, to have laughed with him over breakfast. To imagine that they could have that every morning, if they so chose. Was it really so simple? Was that what McBride was asking him? To choose? He thought about how he'd told Will that he was a royal pain in his arse that evening on the beach, and how Will had turned that statement around into one of fondness, and affection. He thought about how he'd promised Will that he would hold him every hour, if that would help him remember and give him enough strength to go on for yet one more hour. He thought about how he'd told Will – his Will – that he would always want him.

"Yes," Picard said, and he set the mug of tea down. "I am William's care giving partner. And yes, I worry about all of those things. But I am not the same as Kyle Riker," he said. "I am thirty years older than Will. I am the same age as his father. But that is where the similarity ends. There is no coercion, or manipulation, or violence in the intimacy between myself and William. If the intimacy between myself and William is hurting William in any way, then it stops. And you have my word on that."

McBride's smile was genuinely warm. "More tea, Captain?" he asked. He poured out, and then left the tea things on the table. "So I will be treating you both," McBride said, "as a relationship. I will be helping you, Jean-Luc, as you cope with caring for Will throughout the course of his treatment, and then in the aftercare period. I will be working closely with you, helping you with your doubts and your concerns, so that your own anxieties don't impact William's. And I will be helping William to learn to trust you, and your relationship. I will help him learn some of the skills he needs in order to have a safe, consensual, adult relationship." McBride paused. "And, Jean-Luc, I know you are not the same as Kyle Riker. I wanted to make sure that _you_ knew you were not the same as Kyle Riker."

Picard wanted to close his eyes in relief – had he really thought he was abusing Will? – but, of course, he sipped his tea instead.

"I am sure," McBride said, "you are exhausted. You wanted to talk to me about speaking with Kyle Riker, but I'm wondering if perhaps we could save that discussion for after dinner tonight? I believe Deanna has planned – with Guinan's participation – that we should all meet in Ten Forward for dinner."

"A good idea," Picard said. "You're right, I am tired. You must be as well. Neither one of us got much sleep last night."

"No," McBride agreed. "I found the observation lounge to be the perfect place to write some notes and to decompress, after. Were you able to sleep at all?"

"Starship captains – or perhaps any captains, in any time," Picard said, "must cultivate the ability to sleep wherever, whenever, at a moment's notice. Otherwise, we would get no sleep at all." He smiled, and he felt genuine relief in the idea that he actually liked Alasdair McBride. "I have been known to fall asleep standing against a wall on the bridge in the middle of a battle when I was not needed at that particular moment."

McBride grinned. "A useful talent indeed," he said.

"I did tell Will that I would ask you something for him," Picard said.

"Go ahead, Captain."

"Will was trying to explain to me this morning, before we got up, what it felt like inside his mind. They way his brain is 'disordered.' He said that's the term you used."

"Yes. Go on."

"He said it felt as if his brain were in pieces. He compared it to the sherds of glass from the mirror he broke when he attempted suicide. He said his brain is in pieces, and that the pieces don't connect anymore, so sometimes he can understand things, and then other times he can't."

"That's a very precise analogy to the way his brain is currently functioning," McBride commented. "When we do the brain function scan, you will be able to see that that is exactly what is happening."

"I asked him," Picard continued, "if there were any way he could let me know when he didn't understand. Because he told me that I still expected him to respond to me the way he used to, and that he couldn't respond that way anymore, and that when he guessed what I wanted from him, he felt I reacted badly….And I have," Picard admitted. "Reacted badly. Last night was a prime example of my reacting badly, and causing him unnecessary pain."

"We all make mistakes, Jean-Luc," McBride said. "You were awakened, you were tired, and you were irritable. You are entitled to be human in this relationship. William must learn to cope with all the little problems of two people loving each other. Not every argument is the end of the world."

"No," Picard said, bemused. "That's a good thing. He is overly-sensitive – with reason, I know – and I have a sharp tongue."

"Surely that is something he already knows," McBride said.

"Indeed. I was very hard on him, his first year on this ship." Picard sighed. "But he is so fragile now, and I don't want to add to his suffering. Is there any way that you can help us – that you can help me – recognise when he is simply not understanding what is being said, or what is happening around him?"

"Of course. That's a very simple thing, really. We can talk about this at dinner – it will be the perfect time for it, as it's something that the whole team should know."

"Good," Picard said. "I'll look forward to that, then."

"I think," McBride said, after a moment, "that you have one more question to ask me. An important one."

Picard glanced at him sharply. He definitely was an empath.

"Take your time, Jean-Luc," McBride said. "I know that it's hard for you to work through your shyness."

Picard wanted to laugh. Perhaps he would, later, in some future time when Will was better and they were still together. A picture grew in his mind, of Will and he in the garden of some cottage somewhere, Will with his coffee and he his tea, with perhaps a dog at their feet. Then he felt that undercurrent of worry again, and he chided himself for straying into the mawkish.

"I don't discuss my sexuality with anyone," Picard said. "Ever, but – "

"I know, Jean-Luc. You can discuss it with me. This is what I meant, when I said I would help you with your relationship."

"Last night," Picard began. He simply could not believe that he was going to talk to another person about this. Then, he thought, I have to. How can I tell Will to do the difficult things – to remember the terrible crimes his father committed against him – if I can't even discuss – sex – he made himself think it – with the psychiatrist who is supposed to be helping Will? "Last night," he began again, "Will wanted, I think, some validation that I still wanted him, despite what his father had done. He'd expressed to me his feelings of shame and disgust, and that he felt as if no one would ever want him. He's repeatedly said that he's done terrible things; that he's not clean."

"Those are very common feelings for an adult survivor of sexual abuse," McBride said. "The damage that was done to William by those sexual acts his father forced him to perform was in the internalised feelings of shame and disgust that have become permanently part of William's identity. A child has sexual feelings. When stimulated, the child's body will physically respond. The abuser uses this response to justify what he does. He tells the child, 'See. You liked it. You wanted it.' The child blames himself for the abuser's actions. So, yes, William the adult needs to know that he is still attractive, that he still can function sexually, that he is still worthy of your love."

Picard was almost overcome. He swallowed, and he said, "I was worried that he was too fragile for intimacy."

"You need to say what it is," McBride said, and Picard heard Deanna's "therapist's" voice.

He said, "I was worried that Will was too fragile for sex. I asked him to tell me if he became anxious. I made him promise that we would stop, if he felt upset in any way."

"And did he?"

"No," Picard said. "He went to sleep, as did I. And then, my arm triggered him, and he woke up."

"And your question?"

"Are they connected?" Picard asked. "I don't want him to feel rejected. But I don't want to hurt him. And I don't want to be the cause of any triggers, or terrible memories."

"Of course you don't," McBride said. "I think, however, that your underlying question is if you should stop having sex. My simplest answer to that would be, No. Sex can heal, just as it can damage. You love William. I've only been on this ship for two days and I can say that safely, having watched the two of you together. He loves you. Yes, you could trigger him by some specific act. He could – and he may even be doing so and you haven't noticed – be dissociating as he is having sex with you. In fact, that's quite common among survivors. Yes, some of what you do together his father did to him. Are the acts the same? Of course not." McBride said, and Picard recognised that he was using the same tone of voice to him that he'd used with Will just last night, "It must be very difficult for you, as the captain, to have to ask someone else for reassurance. But I am here to give you that, Jean-Luc. That's part of my treatment for you, as the care giving partner. Your instincts with Will are very good. You won't hurt him by loving him, Jean-Luc. I can promise you that."

Picard sighed. "Thank you," he said.

"Sandy," McBride said. "You are welcome to call me Sandy. It's an old Scots nickname for Alasdair."

"Yes," Picard said, and he paused, briefly. "Sandy." He started to rise, when he heard Beverly's voice come over his comm. badge.

"Crusher to Picard."

"Picard here." He froze, knowing that he'd been waiting for this the entire time.

"I need you and Dr McBride in sickbay, Captain," Beverly said. "We've had a medical emergency with Commander Riker."

"What kind of emergency, Doctor?" Picard asked.

"His heart failed," Beverly said. "You need to be here. Now, Captain."

"On my way," Picard responded. "Picard out."

"Captain – " McBride began.

"Not now, Doctor," Picard said. "Follow me."

He strode out of Troi's office, and hoped that McBride could keep up with him as he made his way to the turbo lift. McBride was on his heels, and Picard said, "Deck twelve," when McBride joined him.

McBride said, "The dehydration – " but he saw the look on Picard's face and stopped.

When the doors of the turbo lift opened, Picard had stilled himself, and he walked into sickbay as the captain of the _Enterprise_, prepared for whatever his CMO would tell him. Beverly had pulled Will from the brink of death once – he could only hope that she had done so again.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Someone was speaking to me. I could hear him, almost as if he were very far away. It wasn't the scary voice, the one from my dream, the one where I was hiding in someplace dark and close and small, the dream with the blanket over my mouth and I couldn't breathe, which somehow morphed into that other dream; no, this was a safe voice. I couldn't understand what the voice was saying, but I knew that I could uncurl myself, and take a breath, and I saw myself reaching up for the doorknob – it was painted, like porcelain, in white and blue – and I turned the knob slowly, hearing the door click open, and I saw the sliver of light cross the wooden floor.

I said, "I can come out now? It's okay? He's gone?"

I felt someone take my hand, and then kiss my face. "Yes, _mon cher_," Jean-Luc said, "it's safe now. He's gone. I'm here. No one will hurt you when I'm here."

"You won't leave me alone again?" I asked. I was trying to open my eyes, and my throat felt all scratchy and sore. My mouth was really dry. "He comes back when he thinks I'm alone."

"Has he awakened yet?"

It was Beverly's voice, now. I was beginning to remember; I was in sickbay. I wasn't in the dream anymore. No one would be coming to sickbay to hurt me.

"He's trying to waken," Jean-Luc said. "He's very confused."

Yes, I was confused. I was confused in the dream, too; first the part about the blanket, then the part about the closet. Why did I think I was still there?

Another voice said quietly, "Let me talk to him, please."

"A few minutes only," Beverly said. "No stress, not from either one of you."

"Billy," the voice said.

I should remember who this voice was; it was a very pleasing one, with an accent, not like Jean-Luc's, but somehow familiar. Who was Billy again? I could feel the confusion start again, and I tried to open my eyes.

"Billy," the voice said again. "I'm right here with Jean-Luc, right in front of the door. I want you to reach up and turn the knob. Can you do that?"

I could see the white and blue knob again, the old-fashioned keyhole underneath it. "Yes," I said. I looked down for a minute and could see that I was barefoot, and that I was just wearing briefs – they had puppies on them – and that my chest was bare.

"Can you turn the knob, Billy?" he asked again.

I liked his voice. It was soft. It wasn't the kind of voice that would yell at me. "I'm bleeding,' I said, and I saw that I was. There was blood on my leg, and on my chest, and it was dried on my hand. "It hurts."

"I know, Billy. I'm a doctor. You can open the door, and I'll help you."

"He's not there?" I asked.

"No, _cheri_," Jean-Luc said. "I'm here. The doctor's here. You can come out now."

"He hurt me," I said.

"Yes," the doctor said. "I know. I'll take care of that too. He won't hurt you again."

"I don't want to open the door," I said.

Beverly said, "Gentlemen, that's enough. If he doesn't want to open the door, he doesn't have to. Will, I'm going to give you something for the pain."

"Beverly, please – " Jean-Luc said.

"Shhh," McBride said. "You'll frighten him. Billy, it's over and he's gone. Open the door, hen, and you can show me where it hurts."

"No," I said. But then I said, "Okay, I'll open the door." I watched my arm reaching up for the doorknob, felt it twist in my hand, heard the door click open. I saw the light splash on the wooden floor. "You're not tricking me?" I said.

"No, I would never trick you," Jean-Luc said.

I gave the door a push. I felt my heart stop – but when I opened my eyes, I could see Jean-Luc sitting beside me, holding my hand, and both Dr McBride and Dr Crusher standing next to him.

"Do you know where you are, Will?" Beverly asked. I could hear the concern in her voice.

"Sickbay," I said. "My throat hurts."

"I know," she replied. "You had a breathing tube. I'll get Alyssa to spray your throat for you."

"I couldn't breathe," I said. I was half-whispering, half-talking. "I was having that dream again, and I couldn't breathe."

"Yes," Dr McBride said. "When you're well enough for our session, we'll talk about your dream. For now, though, you just rest. Let Dr Crusher take care of you."

"I'm giving you something for the pain, Will," Beverly said, and I felt the familiar push of a hypo spray. "Gentlemen, he needs to rest. As do you, Jean-Luc. Out."

"Another minute," Jean-Luc said. "He said he doesn't want to be alone."

"Captain," Beverly said. "He's in sickbay. He won't be alone. I have Mr Stoch here already, and I have both Lt Fisk and Dr Sandoval coming on."

I could feel my eyes closing. I heard Jean-Luc say, "Will."

"I'm okay," I said sleepily.

"Do not," the captain said, "leave him alone for one second, Mr Stoch."

"Aye, sir," Stoch said.

I heard the door close.

"I am here, Commander," I heard Stoch say. "You rest."

When I woke again, it was to Lt Fisk checking my vitals.

"Yash," I said. My voice was still whispery.

"Commander? Are you in pain?" He peered at me.

"Thirsty," I said.

"I'll sponge your mouth," he said.

He put some sort of a wet swab in my mouth and let me suck on it for a moment, and then took it out.

"Throat hurts," I said.

"Sir." He opened my mouth and sprayed something. "Swallow. That's it."

I could feel it icing up my throat.

"Better?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Your pain number, Commander?" he asked. "On a scale from one to ten –"

One of these days I was just going to jump the person who said that to me. I shook my head.

"You're not in pain?" he asked.

I sighed. "Hurts to talk," I said. I gave him five fingers.

"Five? That's pretty good," he said. "I'll let Dr Sandoval know."

I nodded. "Mr Stoch?" I asked.

"Still here, Commander," Stoch said.

I wondered if Beverly had managed to convince Jean-Luc to get some sleep. I closed my eyes again, and heard both Beverly and Dr Sandoval come in.

"Will?" Beverly said.

I opened my eyes.

"Only a five?" she asked. "You're not just saying that to get us off your back, are you?"

I sighed. "I hate that question," I said. My voice was a little better, because of the spray.

"And your real pain level?" Beverly said. "Commander?"

"I don't know," I answered. "It hurts but it's outside of me, just floating there. I don't know," I said again. "I feel sick. I don't want any more medication."

"I can't have you in pain, Will," she said. "Your cortisol levels are so low…."

"Rather have a glass of Jameson's," I said.

She looked at me for a minute, and then she laughed. "Okay," she said. "Yash, let's just keep monitoring him for now. Will, you tell Mr Stoch if you need more pain meds then, will you?"

"You won't give me the whiskey?" I tried to smile.

"Maybe tomorrow," she promised.

I closed my eyes again.

"Good morning," Jean-Luc said.

I was still in the biobed, but I was awake, and had managed to have a few ice chips and a couple of sips of water through a straw. My throat was better and I didn't feel as woozy. I still felt as if one of the shuttlecraft had landed on my chest, though. Jean-Luc was in uniform and looked as if he'd actually gotten some sleep, and I wondered if Beverly had just given him something to knock him out.

"How long has it been this time?" I asked.

"This is the third day," he said, taking his seat in his usual chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone broke all my ribs," I said.

"That isn't surprising," he said. "Have you spoken to Dr Crusher yet?"

"She's in a meeting," I said. "I've seen Dr McBride, briefly."

"That's good." He reached for my hand. "No more bad dreams?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Have I been having bad dreams?"

"For a while," he replied. "You look better."

I rolled my eyes. "I must have looked like shit before then," I said, "begging your pardon, sir."

He laughed. "Oh, Will," he said.

"You can't stay?"

"No. Only for a few minutes."

"Places to go, things to do," I murmured.

"Nothing spectacular," he said. "We're on ferryboat service, again."

"We left SB 515, then?"

"Yes."

"Good," I said. "Too close to the Neutral Zone."

"Indeed. But everyone is fairly good about leaving the medical centre alone, Will. You know that."

I nodded. "You slept, finally?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "I slept. But –"

"I know," I said. "It's not my worry."

"I promised Mr da Costa only five minutes, _mon cher_," he said, standing. "Not a good idea to get on his bad side." He gave me a small smile, and then leaned over and kissed my cheek. "If you rest today, you'll be out of the biobed by tomorrow. So you cooperate with Beverly. Will?"

"Sir," I said. "I wish you could stay."

"I know. But I'll just be in the way, and you need your rest. I'll be back here when my shift is over."

"Okay." I watched him leave, and da Costa return. "Mr da Costa," I said.

"Commander. Do you need anything, sir?"

I closed my eyes. "No," I said. "I'm just going to sleep for a bit."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said. "I'll be right here, sir, when you wake."

I was in the damned dream again. This time I was just in the second half of the dream, but I could see more of the closet, could feel more. The smell of mold and mothballs was overwhelming. There were boxes, pushed to the back, and clothes, mostly coats. The floor was wooden, stained. My feet were cold. I was shivering, and I wrapped my arms around my chest and that's when I saw I was bleeding. My briefs were wet and I smelled of urine. I could feel that I was crying; I could hear that I was breathing in little gasps. I could see the doorknob up above me. I knew better than to touch it. If I touched it, it would make a noise, the little snick of the latch releasing. Better to curl myself up against the boxes. Better to stay in the half-darkness….

"Commander? William?"

I could hear da Costa from very far away.

"Open the door, William," da Costa said. "It's okay. I've called for Dr Crusher."

I heard Beverly say, "He's in the dream again?"

"Yes, sir," da Costa said. "Dr McBride is with Counsellor Troi, sir."

"His blood pressure is up. I'm sedating him. This is going to kill him, Mr da Costa."

Da Costa said, "That's what this illness does, sir. It kills."

I felt the pressure of the hypo spray in my neck. I could feel myself start to drift down into sleep, away from the closet, away from everything.

"Will?"

I opened my eyes, and blinked at Jean-Luc standing beside me. I was still in the biobed but I wasn't sure what day it was anymore. He pulled the chair over and took my hand.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"Groggy," I said. "Don't know what day it is."

"Still the third day," he answered. "I said I'd be here after my shift."

"Seems longer," I said. "I'm thirsty."

"You've still some ice chips here. Do you want a few?"

I nodded. He held my head up a bit, and slid a few ice chips into my mouth so I could let them melt on my tongue.

"Should I get Beverly?" he asked.

"No," I said after the ice chips melted. My voice sounded better and my throat didn't hurt. "I'm okay, Jean-Luc. Really."

"Good," he said. "I've been more than a little worried, I must say."

"If I could just stay awake for more than a few minutes," I said. "I hate being in here."

"You should be back in your room tomorrow, Will. These things take time."

"I'll have to start everything all over again," I said.

"It's all right, Will." He placed his hand on my face. "You have everyone in place now. You'll have some rehab to do first, that's all."

I closed my eyes.

"You're tired," he said. "I'll let you rest."

"Please," I said. "Don't go."

"_Bien, mon chou_," he said. "For a few minutes more, then."

"Will you tell me what happened?" I asked. "No one's told me. I guess I keep falling asleep."

"I should leave that for Dr Crusher," Jean-Luc said.

I was silent. I could feel the dream trying to intrude. "Can you talk to me about the ship, Jean-Luc?" I asked. "I promise I won't worry or anything. I miss my ship."

He smiled. "What would you like to know, Number One?" he asked.

"Anything you can tell me…how's Data doing?"

"He's getting the hang of it, you could say," he replied. "Deanna is helping him with the more social aspects of the job. It's hard to get him to not over-compensate, though."

I could just see that, Data's intransigent logic against the Jean-Luc's desire for everything to be exactly as it had been. I tried to laugh, but my chest hurt too much. "Good for Deanna," I said. "She needs the leadership experience."

"Yes," Jean-Luc agreed. "It will be good for her."

I said, "You were talking to me, before."

"When was that, Will?" he asked.

"When I was first coming out of – whatever it was," I said. "Wherever I was. I guess I was unconscious."

"Yes," he said. "You were in a medically-induced coma."

"I guess I tried to die again," I said lightly.

He looked away, and then he said, "There are times, William, when I would just like to shake you."

"It's a good thing I'm in here, then," I said.

"Will," he said. He sounded old, and tired.

This time I looked away. Finally, I said, "I'm sorry, Jean-Luc. I wasn't trying to be flippant."

"Weren't you?" he asked.

"You said you wouldn't get mad when I messed things up," I said quietly. "I wasn't trying to make light of what you felt, Jean-Luc."

He sighed. "I'm not 'mad,' Will, whatever that constitutes. But it's been hard for me, too, you know. You might want to think about that, the next time you use humour as a defence mechanism."

I could feel that sense of hopelessness coming back. "You are mad at me," I said. "And I don't even understand what you just said."

"All right," he said, and he took my hand again. "Just let it go, Will. I'm feeling frustrated, not angry, I promise you. I'll get over it." He leaned over and kissed me lightly on my cheek. "It's over. Nothing for you to be upset about."

"I feel so stupid," I said. "I hate this. I didn't used to be so damned stupid."

"William," he said. "Look at me."

I looked at him, even though I didn't want to. I didn't need him feeling sorry for me.

"Remember how you said things weren't connecting?" he asked. I nodded. "That's what's happened here, that's all. It doesn't have anything to do with being stupid. You have never been stupid, Will."

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly entered the room. "Dr McBride would like to speak with you, if you have a minute. And Dr Sandoval and I are going to run some tests."

He stood. "You'll be all right, then?" he said.

"Yes." I still felt that I'd managed to upset him more than he was willing to admit.

"I'll be back to say goodnight to you, then," he promised.

"Okay," I said. I watched him leave. "Are you going to explain to me what happened?" I asked Beverly. "It would be nice to know."

Beverly glanced at me from her scanner. "Did you two have a fight?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"No? Will?" She walked over to me. "You seem upset."

"I just say stupid things," I said, "and then he gets mad."

She smiled. "He's tired, Will," she said, "and when he's tired, he's impatient. He's been very worried. It's been a rough two weeks, for all of us."

"I'm just so tired of this," I said.

"I know, Will. You'll feel a little better when you're out of the biobed," she said.

Dr Sandoval came in, and so did Lt Fisk. I was tired, too tired to pay much attention to what they were doing, and I closed my eyes.

"Commander?"

I opened my eyes to see Mr Stoch standing beside me.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked.

I nodded, and he gave me a few sips of water.

"Are you in pain?" he continued.

"My chest hurts," I said. "My head, too."

"I'll let Lt Fisk know," he said.

"Okay." I closed my eyes again, and then I heard Jean-Luc ask, "Is he in pain?"

"Sir," Mr Stoch said, "can you tell me your pain level?"

"I don't know," I said. I didn't feel like opening my eyes. Maybe everyone would just go away if I kept them closed. "Six, I guess."

"You'll just feel a push, Commander," Fisk said, and I felt the hypo spray in my neck.

I felt Jean-Luc take my hand. "You go to sleep, _mon cher_," he said, his voice very close to my ear. I felt him kiss me, and felt his hand linger on my face. "Don't be upset, Will," he said. "I promise you I'm not angry with you."

"But you were," I said.

"For about two minutes," he said, stroking my hair. "You won't let me have two minutes to figure things out?"

I opened my eyes. "Just two minutes," I said. "And I'm still not paying for anything."

He grinned, something I hadn't seen him do in a long time. "You drive a hard bargain," he said, kissing me again. "And I've already taken care of my bill."

"Yeah?" This would be good. "You sent it to Nechayev?"

"No," he said. "I just added it to the McBride project costs. There's room for a bit extra."

"You cooked the books?" I said, shocked.

He gave a very Gallic shrug. "I didn't charge very much," he said. "No one will notice." He took my hand again. "You'll sleep, now?" he asked. "You'll be back in your room by lunchtime tomorrow, Beverly said. Lt Patel will start your rehab in the afternoon."

"Yes," I said. "I'll sleep. You should too."

"I've had my marching orders from Dr Crusher, Will," he said, smiling. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

Fisk must have given me a sedative as well as the pain medication, because it was becoming increasingly hard to follow what Jean-Luc was saying. I felt him touch my face. "Good night, Will," he said.

For one brief moment of panic I thought I was all alone in the room, and I could feel the start of the dream hovering around, but then I heard Stoch say, "It's all right, Commander. I'm here," and I felt the panic subside, and the dream recede.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

Kyle Riker waited until the door closed, and he could hear Ivanov's aircar pull out of the drive. He watched William put away the sheet music in the piano bench and turn down the lid on the keys.

He said, "What did he ask you, Billy?"

"I should start dinner," William said.

"I don't think so," Riker responded. "You'll do as you're told. I asked you a question, and I want you to answer me."

"We just talked about music," William said. "He said I was doing good."

"It's _well_," Riker said.

"He said I was doing well," William repeated.

"He asked you a question, William," Riker said. "I heard him, so don't bother lying to me again."

William was silent. Then he said, "You agreed that you wouldn't hurt me anymore."

"That doesn't mean that I won't punish you, Billy," Riker said, "so I suggest you stop stalling for time and tell me what Ivanov said."

"You already said you heard the question," William answered. "What's the point of me telling you, when you already know the answer and you're just going to punish me anyway?"

"Because, William," Kyle Riker said in a low voice, "you will obey me. If I tell you to do something, you do it. You don't question me, do you understand? And," he continued, beginning to unbuckle his belt, "if I make the decision not to put you in the hospital again – not to break your bones or smash your stupid little head – that is my decision; that is my choice, which I make for my own personal reasons, Billy, not for whatever pathetic agreement you think you have with me." Riker unlooped his belt, and he put his hand on William's shoulder and squeezed. "What did Henry Ivanov ask you?"

William flinched, and his father smacked him across the face, knocking him down with the blow.

"Get up," Riker said.

"Sir." William stood up, at attention. He didn't wipe the blood that was trailing down his chin. "He asked me to tell him if you were hurting me."

"And what did you say?" Riker asked.

"I said no."

"You said considerably more than that, Billy."

"I said you didn't hurt me anymore."

"I see," Riker said. "Is there anything else that you said?"

"No, sir," William answered. "He asked me three times. I said the same thing each time, sir."

"You're lying again," Riker said, "and I will not tolerate someone living in my house, eating my food, taking up my time, who lies."

"I – I said you spanked me when I was bad," William amended. "But I didn't say anything else, sir."

Riker looked at his son carefully. He was standing rigidly, at attention, his hands at his sides, his legs in formation. The blood was drying on his chin, and a bruise was forming on his cheek. His eyes, however, were clear.

"You said I didn't hurt you anymore," Riker clarified.

"Yes, sir."

"Which, of course, Billy, implies that I have hurt you in the past," Riker said. "Is that the message that you wanted to give Master Chief Ivanov? That I have hurt you before?"

William could feel his knees begin to buckle. "No, sir," William said. "But he—he came to see me in the hospital. He knows stuff already."

"He knows, Billy," Riker said, and he breathed deeply, because he just wanted to pick the boy up and hurl him, "that you walked out in the snow and gave yourself hypothermia. That is the only thing he knew, until today." Riker paused. "So I ask you again: is that the message that you wanted to send him? That I had hurt you in the past? Is that what you wanted him to go tell Mrs Shugak, or Gareth Davies? Are you waiting for someone to rescue you – Billy?"

"No, sir," William said.

"Because let me tell you something," Riker said, and he bent down so that he was making eye contact with his son. "You are all alone here. You have me. No one else. You drive me away with your behaviour, Billy – and you will be all alone. Do you understand? The state will come in. They will put you back in a facility. And there will be no one – anywhere – who will come to your rescue then. So you can play games with me, Billy – if you think you're strong enough to – but you won't like what happens when you lose."

William could feel the pain welling up in his chest – he could feel the tears, deep inside him – but he kept his knees straight, and his arms at his sides, and he did not cry. He said, "I'll be good, Dad. I don't want you to leave me."

"Then what do you have to do to keep me here?" Riker asked, straightening.

"I have to obey you," William said automatically. "I have to be good."

"You will not lie to me again, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I won't ever tell a lie again, sir."

"You like playing your mother's piano?" Riker glanced at the instrument.

"Yes, sir."

"If you tell a lie again, I will take an axe to it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think I won't do it?"

"No, sir," William said. "No, sir. I know you'll do it."

"And when Henry Ivanov asks you again, what are you going to say to him?"

William said, "I was mistaken. You have never hurt me."

"Take your jeans off," Riker said. "I will not tolerate lying in my house."

"Yes, sir," William said.

He pulled his jeans down, letting them bunch at his ankles. He paused, and then he dropped his briefs, too.

"I'm waiting, Billy," his father said.

He bent over, so that he was braced against the sofa and buried his face in the cushion. The blows were hard and fast, but he didn't really feel them. He was somewhere else.

"Get up," Riker said.

He came back. "Yes, sir," he said. He pulled his briefs and jeans back up. He returned to attention, his eyes fixed on the back of the sofa. He could hear his father breathing, and he knew what was coming next.

"Go upstairs," Kyle Riker said, and William Riker obeyed.


	41. Chapter 41

Author's Note: As with all the chapters dealing with memory retrieval, this chapter has descriptions of child abuse. If you are susceptible to triggers, please do not read this chapter.

Chapter Forty-One

There was the usual hassle of moving me from the ICU back to my old room, involving the orderlies – who, thanks to Djani, were more amenable this time – and by the time I was in the bed, with da Costa beside me, I was exhausted and in pain. Beverly had finally had the time to explain what had happened – that the severity of the dehydration had caused a precipitous drop in my blood pressure, and my heart had stopped. Scans had shown very little damage to my heart, which was good. But because of my issues, as she put it, with nutrition, there had been some renal damage as well. She'd repaired it all, but it just added to the list of things I needed to recover from.

"It's a good thing, Commander," she'd said, "that you were in fine health before all this happened."

Well, actually, there'd been the PTSD and the concussion, and the broken collarbone, and the broken ribs, but I knew what she meant. Before all of the PTSD symptoms started happening. So I was to have fluids every morning, along with whatever Guinan and Otaka and I thought I could handle. And Jai Patel was going to start my rehab right away, as I'd been bedridden too long, and Beverly didn't want fluid build-up in my lungs.

"The problem is, Will," she'd said, "the longer you're here, the more problems arise."

That didn't make any sense to me, but it seemed to make sense to everyone else. So I'd been put to bed, and told to rest, and that I would have a meeting with Guinan, and then something to eat, and then rehab with Patel, and then, da Costa said, my first session in the hyperbaric chamber. It seemed like a pretty tough schedule for someone who'd just tried to die a second – or was it a third? – time.

"Dr McBride is going to have a session with you, Commander," da Costa informed me, "after your session in the hyperbaric chamber."

"What kind of a session?" I asked.

"He intends to focus on your nightmares," da Costa said.

"I don't think so," I answered. "I don't think I'm up to that."

"I understand, Commander," da Costa replied. "But the nightmare – this dream flashback that you're having – is impairing your recovery. You need to retrieve the memory, defuse it, and put it in its proper place."

"I don't fucking understand anything you just said," I told him.

"Of course you don't," da Costa said, and I could hear him employing the same tone of voice that McBride used.

There was something musical about it; something tonal; almost as if they'd taken words and placed them on a scale. For a moment I was completely distracted – it sounded as if it were in G major to me, and then I was calling up some scattered bars from a symphony from somewhere – was it Mozart? I couldn't remember.

"Commander?" da Costa said.

"What?" I think I would have preferred to stay with the notes that were floating around my head.

"It's all right, sir," da Costa said. "Dr McBride will make sure you're well enough for the session. You don't have to dissociate, just because you're worried about this."

"Oh, fuck you," I said. "I don't need to be patronised by a crewman."

Da Costa straightened. "Sir," he said. "I wasn't attempting to patronise you. Sir."

"Of course you weren't," I said sarcastically. "But, regardless of what you said earlier, I'm not having anything to do with that dream. And I'm not having any session with Dr McBride. Not today. Not until I feel I'm strong enough. Do you understand? Mr da Costa?"

"Sir," da Costa said.

"And you can tell him I said so."

"Sir."

"I have enough on my plate today," I said.

"Sir," da Costa said.

It was at that point that Deanna walked in. "What's the matter, Will?" she asked.

I said, "Is this a personal meeting or a professional one?"

"I thought," Deanna said, "I would give you an overview of the rest of this week, and then we'd work on some breathing exercises before you go to rehab."

"Then I'd appreciate it," I said, "if you would address me by my rank."

"I see," she said. "Commander."

"I thought I was meeting with Guinan before rehab," I said. "Counsellor."

"We have thirty minutes to work on breathing exercises and visualisation, Commander," she said. "Guinan should be here then. You have approximately twenty minutes for a quick meal, and then you're scheduled for Lt Patel."

I looked at da Costa. "Then you're dismissed, Crewman," I said.

"Sir," da Costa said.

I saw him glance briefly at Deanna and I said, "I wouldn't say anything if I were you, Mr da Costa. You're skating on thin ice with me at the moment as it is."

"Aye, sir," he said.

Deanna sat down in the captain's chair and looked at her padd. She handed me one and said, "Here's your schedule, Commander."

I sat back down on the bed and glanced at it. Everything was as it had been given to me before, except that it included my first CBT session with Dr McBride.

"Is there something you'd like to talk about, Commander?" Deanna asked.

"Are you asking as my case manager?" I said, looking up from the padd.

"Yes," she said.

I got up and shut the door. "There are a few things I'd like to discuss with my case manager," I said.

"Why don't you sit down, then, and we'll discuss them," she replied.

I looked at her again. She was using her therapist's voice, but she was also using the same tone on me that she used with Lt Barclay.

"I am not Lt Barclay," I said. "You don't need to use that tone with me, Counsellor.'

"And you, Commander, will not speak to me the way you just did to Mr da Costa," she replied. "I understand you are upset. And I'm perfectly willing to discuss whatever it is that's upsetting you. But not in this manner. So why don't you take a few deep breaths and calm down, and we'll start again. Civilly."

I sat down on the bed. "Fine," I said.

"Now, Will," Deanna said. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

"I thought the whole point of that treatment plan meeting was to give me input into my own treatment."

"To a certain extent, yes," she answered. "There are therapeutic reasons as to why it's set up the way it is. Every single aspect of the intensive treatment program has been deliberately planned for its therapeutic value. The order the sessions are in. The length of the sessions. They types of sessions."

"Okay," I said. "I can understand that. Although we never got the chance to explain to me what the afternoon sessions were."

"It's my understanding, Will," Deanna said, slowly, "that when Dr McBride and I meet with you this afternoon, we'll be going over just that. Everyone else on your team has already been briefed."

"When did that happen?"

"When you were in the ICU," Deanna said.

"Which comes to my second issue," I said. "My heart has failed – what, twice? Three times? And yet da Costa tells me I'm going to have a session today with McBride about that damned dream."

"Dr McBride would like to start memory retrieval today, yes," Deanna said.

"I'm not going to do it," I said. "I have a long day today, my first day out of the ICU. I have rehab and I have meetings, apparently, with you and Guinan. And let's not forget the hyperbaric chamber, whatever the hell that is. And then a meeting with you and McBride. No."

"The issue is, Will – " Deanna began.

"I know what the issue is," I interrupted. "Damn it, Deanna, I'm the one who's had the stupid dream. I don't need to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it. And I'm not going back in the damned ICU when my blood pressure goes sky high because you're forcing me to talk about it."

"Then we will bring this issue up with Dr McBride," Deanna said reasonably. "We can ask Beverly if she'll come sit in on the discussion, if that will help."

"And then that idiot da Costa tells me not to dissociate just because I was distracted for a moment," I continued, "as if I don't know what dissociation is – I do know what it is –who the hell does he think he is, anyway?"

"Will," Deanna said, "why don't you take a few deep breaths again."

"Oh, fuck," I said. I got up and walked to the door.

"Why don't we go ahead and do some breathing, and then a grounding exercise," she suggested, and she was using her "let's talk really slowly so the patient doesn't have a meltdown" voice. "You're very anxious right now, Will."

"Really?" I said. "I didn't know."

"William," she said. "Sit down. In the chair. Hands on your knees, feet flat on the floor."

I punched the door. "Goddamn it, Deanna, stop telling me what to do!" I said.

Of course, the door was pushed open, and da Costa came in, followed by Beverly.

"Commander," da Costa said.

"Just get away from me," I said. "I mean it, da Costa. I've had enough."

"What's going on, Will?" Beverly asked.

Deanna said, "You are not going to lose control, Will. You don't have to. You can calm yourself down."

"What does he need, Deanna?" Beverly asked.

"Just let him be, Joao," Deanna said. "Will. Listen to me. Come back over here and sit down. I've already said that we'll talk to Dr McBride. I'm not telling you what to do, Will, I promise. I'm asking you to help yourself."

"Commander," Beverly said. "You either listen to Deanna, or I will have Mr da Costa hold you down while I sedate you. It's your choice."

I was breathing heavily, and my stupid hand was hurting – and for a minute I just wanted to start shouting again – but Beverly and Deanna were both right. I could do this. I didn't have to give in to the chaos, the way I had the other night.

"It's okay, Will," Deanna said. "You have the control. You've always had the control. Just concentrate on one thing at a time. Walk over to the chair. You can do that first."

I said, "I think I broke my hand again," and then walked over to the chair and sat down.

"Now I want you to take three deep cleansing breaths," Deanna said. "Slowly. That's right. You think about relaxing your diaphragm. That's right. You do that while Dr Crusher looks at your hand."

"I'm still doing rehab," I said. "You're not going to sedate me. I can calm myself down."

"All right, Will," Beverly said. "Just let me see your hand."

She lifted it, and scanned it. "It's not broken," she said, "amazingly enough. It's just a little swollen, that's all. You'll be okay. I'll get Alyssa to bring the swelling down. And you're right, Will. If you can calm yourself down, I'd much rather you go to rehab."

I was breathing again. "Who's taking me?" I asked.

"I am, Commander," da Costa said, "because I'll be taking you on to the hyperbaric chamber right after."

"That's it, Will," Deanna said. "Deep breaths. Slow it down. That's it."

"I'll send Alyssa in," Beverly said.

She left, and da Costa came back over to his post.

"I'm sorry, Commander," he said, "if you thought I was being disrespectful to you, sir. It has never been my intention to be disrespectful to you or to patronise you in any way."

"Just breathe, Will," Deanna said.

"I'm okay, Deanna," I said. "Thank you, Mr da Costa."

"It's my job, Will, as your case manager, to advocate for you," she said. "If you have concerns, don't let them build up like this. Make sure you ask to see me right away. I will be available for you, if you need me."

"Okay," I said.

"Do you want to do a grounding exercise?" she asked. "I don't want you to be so upset you won't eat."

"I promised Jean-Luc," I said, "that I would try to eat two meals a day."

"So let's do the grounding exercise, then, Will," Deanna said. "You'll feel better, I promise you."

"All right," I said.

Deanna took me through the muscle relaxing first, and then she did a very simple grounding exercise, where I just concentrated on feeling my self in my body and my breathing. I'd closed my eyes, and hadn't even realised Ogawa had come in the room until I felt her take my hand.

"There you go, Commander," she said quietly. "Guinan is here, when you're ready, sir."

I opened my eyes to see Ogawa leaving, and Deanna stood up and hugged me.

"That was not from your case manager," she said, smiling. "I'm going to be working with Sandy, but if you need me, you ask Joao to comm. me, okay?"

"Sandy?" I said.

"Dr McBride," Deanna said.

"You won't be here in sickbay?" I asked.

"No," she said. "We've utitilised two of the rooms on Deck Eight for Sandy's office and the hyperbaric chamber. I'll be there."

"I forgot he told me his name was Sandy," I said.

"If you don't need me before then, Will," she finished, "I will see you in a couple hours."

"All right," I answered. "Thanks, Deanna. I'm not trying to be an asshole, I promise you."

"I know, Will," she said. "But you can feel frustrated, and you can voice your frustration, without losing control. Both Joao and I can work on that with you, if you'd like."

I didn't say anything, and I didn't look at da Costa. Deanna was very careful not to respond in any way, as if she knew I was just waiting for her to glance at da Costa or roll her eyes. I did a few leg stretches, just for something to do, and waited for Guinan to arrive.

Guinan had brought the meal with her that I was supposed to have before I'd collapsed in the biobed, a grilled cheese sandwich and an apple – I have no idea where she'd found an apple, a real one, but she had – and some mint iced tea, which she remembered that I liked. Actually, she'd brought two sandwiches, because apparently Jean-Luc was having lunch with me, something I didn't expect, but which was a nice surprise, as I hadn't seen him since last night. We talked briefly about ideas for dinner – one of the components I was supposed to be having in my "brain-healing" diet was omega-3 fatty acids and so Guinan had suggested she could approximate a salmon salad, in keeping with her "summer" foods theme for me. That sounded okay, and she'd left just as the captain arrived. I was not unaware of the fact that sickbay had suddenly become a much busier place, thanks to me.

"I didn't expect to see you so early," I said.

Djani and another orderly had taken a few minutes to set up a table and two chairs for us in my room, rather that just give me a tray in my bed. They were probably Beverly's from her office and I made a note to thank her on my way out to rehab.

"I have to eat," Jean-Luc said mildly, sitting down. "How are you this morning? You can leave us, Mr da Costa."

"Sir," da Costa said, and left quietly, pulling the door.

I shrugged. "I guess I've been a little cranky," I said, finally.

"A little cranky?" he echoed. He was looking at the grilled cheese sandwich as if it would bite him instead of the other way around. "The colour of this cheese, Number One, is bizarre."

"I guess a lot cranky," I said. "It's orange. I think it's supposed to be cheddar of some kind."

"I've never met a cheddar that was quite this hue before," he said.

"It's a kid's meal," I answered.

"Indeed," he said, taking a bite. He looked at me sternly. "If I'm eating this, so are you," he said.

"Okay," I said. "The apple slices are good."

He grinned, which was a little terrifying. "The sandwich, Number One," he said.

I took a bite of the sandwich. "It tastes," I said, "just like I remember it."

"A lot cranky," he repeated. "And who were the recipients of your crankiness this morning?"

But I was looking at the sandwich and the apple slices.

"Will?" he said.

I could feel myself sort of drifting away, and then the cottony feeling was back – and then I was seeing the white and blue of the doorknob, and smelling mothballs, and I could feel the cold hardwood beneath my bare feet.

"_Mère de Dieu_," I heard Jean-Luc say, from very far away. "Picard to Troi."

"Troi here, Captain."

"I need Dr McBride here now," Jean-Luc said. "Will? Mr da Costa!"

"It's okay," I said. "I'm just not going to open the door. I'm just going to stay here."

He took the sandwich from my hand. I heard him say, "He's back in the middle of the dream, Mr da Costa. It was the food that triggered it, this time."

"It's always food," da Costa said. "Is Dr McBride on his way?"

"I certainly hope so. Will? You don't have to stay in there. I'm here. You're safe."

I could smell the apples intruding into the closet, and I closed my eyes at the onslaught. For some reason the smell of mothballs was safer. I could see myself back farther into the closet, bumping up against the fur of the coats and the boxes.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly said. "What's happening?"

"He's in the middle of a flashback," da Costa said.

"Perhaps we should move him to the bed, Mr da Costa."

"No," da Costa said. "As long as he's not hurting himself – we should wait for Dr McBride."

I could still smell the apples. I curled myself into a ball, rested my head against one of the boxes. I didn't have to look down at myself to know that I was bleeding.

"Another food trigger?" McBride asked. "Where is he, do you know?"  
"Back in the dream," Jean-Luc replied.

"What has he said?"

Da Costa answered, "He said he's not going to open the door."

"So we have Billy's lunch here," McBride said. "Jean-Luc, make sure that you're holding him, so he knows you're here. Dr Crusher, I'm going to try to talk him through this one, but it's best we're prepared anyway."

"I agree," Beverly said.

"Deanna, I'd like you to monitor his anxiety levels. Joao, shut the door."

I could hear a chair being dragged from across the room. I felt Jean-Luc wrap one arm around me, and then I felt McBride's hand on my arm.

"William?" McBride said. "Can you hear me?"

His voice was muffled through the door, but I nodded.

"Good," he said. "I want you to open your eyes, please."

I did, and I could see the sandwiches and the apple slices. I was relieved, because I knew the apple smell didn't belong to the dream.

"You are looking through a viewscreen, William," McBride said. "Do you remember how you watched Billy through the wall?"

"Yes," I said.

"We don't have the wall here with us right now, so we'll be using a viewscreen instead. Can you see the sandwiches and the apple slices on the viewscreen?"

I blinked my eyes. The other place – the dream place – was trying to keep me from seeing the sandwiches and the apples, was trying to keep me from seeing the viewscreen.

"It's right in front of you, William. Can you see it?"

"Breathe, Will," Deanna said.

"Yes, I can see it now." I breathed.

"And you can see your lunch on the viewscreen?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said. "Your lunch is on the kitchen table? The wooden one?"

"Yes," I said.

"The one where the chairs have the cushions with the green ivy pattern?"

"Yes," I repeated.

"Good," he said again. "You're doing splendidly, William. Remember, this is a viewscreen. You are seeing images that are on a screen. These images are not real. They don't belong to the present. They are part of the past, and the past cannot hurt you in the present. Can you remember that, William?"

"Yes," I said.

"Can you see Billy on the viewscreen, William?" McBride asked quietly.

I felt Jean-Luc pull me to him a bit. I nodded.

"Can you tell me what he's doing?"

"Eating apple slices with cheese," I said.

"He's sitting on the chair?"

"No," I said. "He's kneeling on the cushion."

"And he has a sandwich, too?"

"Yes," I said. "It's a grilled cheese sandwich, but it's on a different plate."

"And he has something to drink?"

"Milk," I said.

"How old is Billy here, William?"

"He's five," I said. "He's going to start school."

"Ah," McBride said. "For the first time?"

"Yes."

"Is there anyone else there, on the viewscreen?"

"Billy's dad is there. He's taking the dishes away."

"Billy was done eating?"

"No," I said. "It doesn't matter."

"So Billy's father cleared the dishes?" McBride confirmed. "What else is Billy's father doing?"

I said, "He's bringing a towel from the kitchen. He's spread it on the table." I could see the doorknob again, could feel the floor under my bare legs. "I don't want to see this anymore," I said.

"I know," McBride said. "But, remember, William, this is just a viewscreen. What happens to Billy on the screen is not happening to you now, in the present. You are in sickbay. You are safe. I am here, and Jean-Luc is here, and Dr Crusher is here; Deanna is here. We are all here to help you."

"It's all right, Will," Jean-Luc said, and I could hear his voice very close to me. "I've got you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

"Tell me what Billy's father is doing," McBride said.

"He – he told Billy to stand up," I said. "To stand up on the chair. He doesn't want to. He's afraid he'll fall."

"Breathe, Will," Deanna said again. I felt her rest her hand on my shoulder.

I breathed in the scent of mothballs. "He's taking Billy's pants off," I said. "Everything. Shoes, socks, pants….Please," I said. "Oh, don't."

"What do you see, William?"

"He's taking Billy into his mouth," I said. "He's laying him on the towel. He's – "

Jean-Luc said, "Does he have to tell this? We all know what the man did. How will it possibly benefit him to tell this, to relive this? Beverly, surely –"

"He can't eat," I heard da Costa say softly. "He can't drink, sir. The memories are killing him, sir. He has to voice them. He has to feel what he couldn't feel, understand what happened, and then put the memories in the past, where they belong."

"Jean-Luc," Dr McBride said. "We are the witness to Billy's pain. We hear the child who was silenced. We give him permission to speak, to tell his story. If he can't tell it to us – if he can't tell it to you, Jean-Luc, the man he loves, who can he tell it to? William," he said to me, "of course Jean-Luc doesn't want you to hurt anymore – none of us do – but Billy needs you to be strong. Billy needs you to tell us what you see."

I said, and I could feel the tears running down my jaw, down my neck, "He's prepping him. It – it hurts. It hurts –" I was gasping for air "—There's so much blood," I said. "He's fucking him and there's so much blood, and it hurts, I feel split in two -" and then I was in the half-darkness again, feeling the cold wooden floor beneath my bare legs, smelling the stench of urine and mothballs, feeling the blood running down my legs, looking at the blue and white of the porcelain doorknob and waiting for it to turn.

"Where are you, William?" McBride said, and I felt him take my hands.

"I'm hiding," I whispered.

"Of course you are," McBride said, "but, William, I want you to look at the viewscreen and tell me what you see. What has happened to Billy?"

"He stopped crying," I said. "I don't think he's conscious anymore."

"What is Billy's father doing?"

"He's cleaning him up," I said. "There's blood and semen. He's putting his clothes back on. He's carrying Billy upstairs. He's putting him to bed."

"Whose bed, William?"

"His bed," I answered, and I was sobbing. "His father's bed."

"Hold him, Jean-Luc," McBride said. "Just hold him."

I could feel Jean-Luc's arms wrapped around me, and Deanna's hands on my shoulders.

"I know it hurts, William," McBride said. "You are feeling Billy's pain, the pain he couldn't feel so long ago. You go ahead and feel it, William. It's all right to cry over this pain."

"I've got you, Will," Jean-Luc said. "I'm here."

"It hurts," I said.

"Yes," McBride answered. "There is the physical pain and the emotional pain. It does hurt. But there's more than that, isn't there, William? What was Billy's father saying?"

"What was he saying?" I repeated. I felt as if my head were going to explode.

"He was talking to Billy, wasn't he, while he was raping him? What was he saying?"

"No," I said. "No, I don't want to – "

"What was he saying, William?"

I felt the pain well up in my chest, felt the tears start again. "It's my fault," I said. "He said it was my fault. He said I killed my mother and so I had to take her place. He said I liked it. He said I wanted it. He said I needed it. You should have let me die," I said. "You should have let me die."

"I have you, Will," Jean-Luc said again. "You're safe here, with me."

"Can you shut the viewscreen off now, William?" McBride asked.

I nodded. "Yes."

"Can you be here in this room with me now?"

"Yes," I said.

"Can you tell me what you are feeling? Can you name the feelings?" he asked.

"Pain," I said.

"And what else?"

"I don't know," I said.

"You're crying," McBride said. "What feeling is that?"

"Sad," I said, and suddenly I could feel it, that heaviness in my chest that wouldn't let me breathe, I could feel - "Sadness," I said, "and hurt, and – " It was almost more than I could take "—and anger," I said, "I'm angry; he shamed me, I feel sick –"

"So many feelings for such a small boy," McBride said. "And each one of those feelings is normal, William. You felt the physical and psychological pain. You felt profound sadness – a father is supposed to protect his children, and support his children, not destroy them. You felt such anger – he betrayed you – a very frightening feeling for a five-year-old boy to feel that rage, from being violated, from having your trust taken away from you. And he made you feel shame. And disgust. But William – the shame, and the disgust – those are his feelings that he gave to you. He projected those feelings onto you. He made you feel that way."

"He said I liked it," I said.

"He made sure he could say that, William," McBride said. "I would like for us to talk about this, Will, because there are some things here that I want you to understand. Your support team is right here with you. It's important for you to see the reasons for the way you felt and acted when you were that five-year-old boy."

I started to wipe my face on my sleeve, and Jean-Luc quietly dried my face with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket.

"How are his vitals, Dr Crusher?" McBride asked.

"They're where you would expect them to be," Beverly said. "But – since you've briefed me on this – I understand the process, now. His blood pressure is not where I'd like it to be – but he needs to finish the session."

"Joao, would you get Will some water, please?" McBride asked. "And Deanna, let's make sure he's breathing."

I watched da Costa leave for the water, and I felt Jean-Luc let me go. Deanna came around from behind me and said, "Let's do some deep cleansing breaths, Will." I let her lead me through the breathing exercises. Da Costa returned with a cup of water and gave it to me.

"I commed Mr Patel and let him know what was happening," he told McBride. "He was concerned when Commander Riker didn't show up for rehab."

I took a few sips of water and tried to keep myself from just closing my eyes.

"Will," McBride began, "let's take a look at what this man – your father – did. What was the first sexual act he committed in this memory?"

"He took Billy's – my – clothes off," I said. "He fellated me."

"Yes. Why did he do that, I wonder?"

"I don't know," I said. "Because he was a sick bastard?"

"Do you believe that?" he asked. "Or do you believe what he told you? That it was your fault?"

"I've always been difficult," I said, and I felt Jean-Luc stiffen beside me.

"So it was your fault. You liked it. You wanted it. Did you have an erection, after he fellated you?"

I looked at the floor. "Yes," I said.

"Can you prevent the genitals from reacting to stimulus, Will?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Even a child's genitals will respond to stimulation," he said. "What your father did first was a calculated act to control you. He stimulated your penis, so you would have an erection, which is an automatic response – even in an infant – to genital stimulation. Then he told you that you liked what he was doing. That you wanted him to do it. That you needed him to do it. That you were disgusting for liking it. He made you feel ashamed of an automatic response to his stimulation. These acts," McBride said, and I realised he wasn't just talking to me, he was talking to everyone in the room, "were not the acts – as he would have us believe – of an inadequate man who had been destroyed by the loss of his wife. They were not the acts of a man who could not control himself; who was drunk; who was psychotic; who was suffering from a mental illness. These were the acts of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly what to do and what to say to control his son, to get his son to comply with the acts, to get his son enmeshed in his own abuse, and to get his son to believe that he – the child – was solely responsible for the acts of the adult."

"They were," Jean-Luc said quietly, "the acts of a monster."

"Can you see, William, how you were manipulated and controlled? He took his feelings of rage and hatred and shame and disgust – and he gave them to you. So you incorporated those feelings into your self, into, as we say in psychotherapy, your ego. You just said to us what he must have told you countless times – 'I have always been difficult.' So you deserved to be raped. You deserved to be forced to perform oral sex when you were three years old. You deserved to be beaten. You deserved to have your bones broken and your heart broken. Because you were difficult. Because you'd killed your mother." He paused. "Are any of those statements true, William? Did you kill your mother?"

"I don't know," I said. I was starting to shake.

"Breathe, Will," Deanna said.

"Don't you? Your mother's records were easy to find."

"I didn't kill her?"

"Will," Jean-Luc said, "you were two-and-a-half years old. How could you have possibly done anything to anyone?"

"Your mother died of a virus," McBride said. "A particularly nasty one, one that Dr Crusher could easily explain to you. She was a brilliant officer – and an officer who took great pride in her work, in her ability to lead her away team. She always led the away team – even when she didn't have to. I remember reading that, in her captain's report."

Jean-Luc put his arm around my waist and said, "Does that sound like anyone you know?"

"Me," I said. "It sounds like me."

"It was a scientific mission, according to the report," McBride continued. "The virus was in the soil samples. She had a cut on her finger. You were almost a year old when she became infected. It took her a year and a half to die." He came over to me, and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Look at me, William," he said. "Everything your father said to you was a deliberate lie. You did not kill your mother. You were not even present when she became infected. You were a baby. You did not want what your father did to you. You did not like what your father did to you. You were raped. You were a child, and you were raped. You have never born any responsibility ever for your abuse. In this situation, you did what you could to physically survive a very violent act. You split yourself – what we call dissociation – so that there would be a part of your ego that would be intact. So while there was one part of Billy experiencing the rape, there was another part that had gone somewhere else. That part of you went to a safe place where you could hide, where he wouldn't find you."

I said, "I went into the coat closet."

"Yes. In your dream, you are remembering where you went to hide – because you could not allow yourself to remember the rape."

"The coat closet is real."

"Of course it is," McBride said. "And you can probably now remember where the closet is. I'm guessing it was not even in your house."

"No," I said. "I remember now. It was in Mrs Shugak's house. It was the closet in her guest bedroom, where she kept the winter coats." I thought for a minute and then I said, "I was hiding in that room for real. We were playing hide-and-clap. Dmitri was the oldest so he was the one looking. I won the game, because he couldn't find me."

"What a clever little boy you were," McBride said. "You created a safe place out of a place that was positive, where you'd won a game playing with your cousins."

"But in my dream –" I began.

"We'll talk more specifically about your dream in our next session, William," McBride said.

"We have one more thing that we need to do."

I said, "What do you mean, my cousins? I don't have any cousins. Dmitri was Mrs Shugak's grandson. She was my babysitter."

"Will," Jean-Luc said, taking my hand, "Mrs Shugak is your aunt. Well, she was your mother's aunt."

"No," I said. "In the tribe, all the elders are called auntie and uncle. It's a title of respect."

"Jean-Luc," McBride said, "let's save that discussion for another time, shall we? We need to close this session."

"Of course," Jean-Luc said.

"Remember I asked you to close the viewscreen, William?" McBride asked.

"Yes," I said. I was still trying to figure out what Jean-Luc had meant.

"Can you look at the viewscreen again for a moment?"

"Yeah." It was strange, but I could see it as if it were real.

"It's off now, yes?"

I nodded.

"Can you take the disc out?"

"Yes," I said. It was almost surreal. I could see the viewscreen. I pushed the button and the disc slid out.

"I want you to put the disc in a folder," McBride said. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," I said.

"We're going to call this folder Billy at five, all right?"

"I guess," I said.

"You have the disc in the folder, William?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good," McBride said. "Now I want you to picture a large cabinet, with drawers for all kinds of different folders. Do you see it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Open the top drawer and put the folder in."

"Okay." I opened the top drawer and I set the folder inside.

"Now close the drawer."

"Okay." I closed the drawer.

"Do you see the key where you can lock the drawer?"

"Yeah."

"Go ahead and lock the folder in the drawer."

"Okay." I turned the key and heard it click.

"Where are you going to put the key?"

"I guess just on top of the cabinet," I said.

"Go ahead and do that."

I put the key on top of the cabinet.

"You have watched this memory, William," McBride said. "You have felt now what you couldn't feel then and stay alive. You have seen that you did what you could to survive. You understand that your father was the only person responsible for what happened. You know that he lied to you, that he manipulated you, and that he controlled you. You understand now that you dissociated in an effort to keep your personality intact and that you were able to create a safe place where you could go so you wouldn't be completely destroyed by your father's violence. You have finished with this memory. You've put it away – you don't need to experience it anymore. It's over. If, in some future time, you need to look at this memory again – you can unlock the drawer and pull it out. But for now, it's in a safe place, and it won't intrude in your life again."

I looked at da Costa and said, "You said this to me this morning. That I needed to retrieve the memory, defuse it, and put it in its proper place."

"Yes, Commander," da Costa said. "And you've done that, with this particular memory."

"I put it back in the past, where it belongs," I said. "And it won't bother me – _intrude_ – anymore. Because it's locked away."

"You can access the memory yourself," McBride said. "You control it. It does not control you. However, Will, we have done what we needed to do here. You've revisited this trauma. You've told your story – Billy's story. We've witnessed the abuse – and we've validated your pain. You experienced the feelings you couldn't feel then. You have recognised the evil that was done to you – and that the evil did not belong to you. You can now let it go."

"And what happened in my dream – " I began.

"Belongs to another session," McBride finished. "You are exhausted. Dr Crusher is anxious about your blood pressure. You were supposed to start rehab and hyperbaric therapy today, and I am very reluctant to push those off to yet another day. It's very important to maintain your schedule as much as we can. Deanna," McBride said, "we should have a brief meeting with Commander Riker as previously scheduled, just to go over the basic components of his cognitive therapy program, don't you agree?"

"Yes," Deanna said. "Just the basics, no more than half an hour, Will."

"Dr Crusher?" McBride said.

"I agree that Commander Riker should still have these two sessions," she said, thoughtfully. "However, given the physical toll of this session, I'd like him to have a nutritional shake and some fluids – Will, if you'll drink some water that should be sufficient – and he needs to rest."

"I'll drink the water," I said.

"Good. Then let's get you into bed."

Da Costa helped me over to the bed, and I slid under the sheet. He propped the pillows up behind me, and gave me the cup of water.

"I'm wondering if we shouldn't switch the sessions," he said to McBride.

"That's an excellent idea," McBride agreed. "That gives you a further opportunity to rest, William, if you have the hyperbaric therapy first. You'll be relaxed and a little bit more energised, then, to work with Lt Patel."

"Okay," I said. I took a few sips of water and then leaned back, closing my eyes.

I heard Beverly shoo everyone out. There was a part of me that wanted to analyse everything that had just happened, to make sense of all of the information, but I could feel myself starting to drift off to sleep. I felt the bed sink, and I opened my eyes.

"Sorry about your lunch," I said.

"I'll grab something later," he said. "I've got several reports to read – I can catch up then."

"Okay." I closed my eyes again, and I felt him hold my hand for a minute.

"You rest now," he said. "Do you want me to rearrange the pillows for you?"

"No. I'm supposed to be drinking water."

"Yes, make sure you do. I'll send Mr da Costa back in."

"Jean-Luc?"

"Yes, Will?"

"Will I see you again today?"

"Did you kick me out of our bed?" he asked.

When I opened my eyes, he had that ironic smile on his face.

"And after Mr da Costa went to all that trouble, too," he said.

I rolled my eyes at him, and he kissed me. "Around eighteen thirty," he said. "You don't need me in the session with Dr McBride, if it's just informational."

I nodded. "All right. You'll be having dinner with them again?"

He shrugged. "It's become something of a routine," he answered. "Debriefing in Ten Forward. I think this is the most I've ever spent in Ten Forward."

"That's good," I said. "The crew doesn't see you enough."

"No," he said. "That's supposed to be your job, remember?"

"If I have one," I said.

"Trust me, William," he replied. "As integral as Commander Data has been to our mission, I will be very pleased to have you back at full capacity. And I believe Dr McBride told you to leave that to me."

"Sir," I said.

"Get some sleep. You can tell me all about the hyperbaric chamber, later."

I closed my eyes again. There was something I wanted to ask him, but I couldn't recall what it was. He rested his hand on my face for a moment, and then I heard him walk away. I heard him say something to da Costa and then da Costa took up his post.

"I'm right here, Commander," da Costa said softly.

"You speak in G major," I said, and as I fell asleep I saw some scattered notes from Mozart's Symphony No 12 drift by.


	42. Interlude: Ten

Interlude: Ten

There were, he thought, always rumours of war and of some strange new entity that would, Borg-like, destroy the Federation. He'd reached the age, although supposedly at only the halfway mark for human life, that he was merely tired of the subterfuge and the lies and the posturing. He'd always willingly played the game; more often than not he'd won the damned game, but he was somehow in a rare mood of introspection (or what passed for introspection) and he was tired.

He'd kept the cottage on Risa, having rented it out for most of the time as a small vacation retreat to clients of a certain proclivity not dissimilar to his own. Now, on his way back to San Francisco for yet more briefings and more subterfuge and more posturing, he'd notified his agent that he would be using the cottage himself for a small vacation. He'd arrived on the Risa _Express_, just another eagre tourist, and was met by his agent in Nuvia, where he'd been told that the cottage was ready for him. He'd checked in with the powers-that-be, merely as a courtesy, and then was quite happy to disappear to the coast.

He'd received the communication request from Jean-Luc Picard while he was still on the shuttle that would take him to the Risa starship port. He knew immediately what it meant: his son William was dead. What other reason would there be for the captain of the _Enterprise_ to contact him? He hadn't heard from Will since the last time he'd sent a message, perhaps some ten months before. Will's response had been terse, but he'd come to expect it. He'd at least responded. He'd sat down at the console and done the calculation in his head, knowing that he was right but hoping that he was wrong. The conclusion was inescapable. Will was the same age Betty had been when she had died. He'd read somewhere that some children, having lost a parent at an early age, would automatically assume that their lives would end then, too; Will's mind, as mathematical as it was, would undoubtedly have engineered something similar.

So he was surprised – insomuch as he allowed himself to feel surprise – when Picard had announced the expected accident but had then said Will was recovering. That had been the highlight of the conversation; it had gone downhill from there. Will was remembering; it was impairing his recovery from what – even though Picard had not come right out and said it – was a suicide attempt. Picard wanted information to decode Will's memories, which, apparently, were highly symbolic; no surprise there, Riker thought grimly. He'd asked about the hemorrhage that had taken Betty on her last trip to the hospital – it had been to his amazement that Will had memories of that – and then about the incident in ProvidenceHospital, when Will was seven. Picard had said he would keep in communication, as there was more that he needed to know.

So he'd waited about a week, and then, when he arrived in Nuvia, he'd sent a request for an update on Will's status. He'd hoped that by the time he reached the cottage, there would be a returned message from Picard, but there was nothing.

He wondered what that meant. He'd have heard from Picard immediately, he thought, if Will's health had taken a turn for the worse. He could assume that no news would be good news – Will's recovery was slow but stable – but he was a man who had never assumed anything. William had been a difficult infant; he'd been a difficult toddler; he'd been, overall, a difficult child. From his Starfleet records, which he'd accessed when he was asked to brief Will on the _Aries_, Will's personality as an adult hadn't changed all that much from when he was a child. He'd been amazed, frankly, that Picard had picked Will as first officer; had promoted him to commander sight unseen. He'd always thought Kathy Janeway would be the first officer of the flagship, but she had chosen a different route; now she was a captain, while his son had turned down his own ship too many times to count. Perhaps, he thought wryly, his son's personal relationship with Picard was more meaningful than his career.

He sent another message requesting an update to Picard as soon as he arrived at the cottage. He'd tossed his bag and his portfolio on the floor, and now as he bent to pick them up he heard a noise, and he felt his hand reach for the phaser he always kept hidden. He was supposed to be a civilian – that's what his papers said – and civilians were not supposed to be armed. It was a good thing, he thought, he was not a civilian.

"Don't shoot me," the boy said. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with fear.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Riker did not put the phaser down.

"Mr Behlar sent me here," the boy said. It was clear he was trying not to cry. "It was supposed to be a surprise gift for you."

"I hate surprises," Riker said. "You're not Risian. What's your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be," the boy said, trying to regain his confidence.

Riker put the phaser away, and then kicked his bag towards the boy. "Make yourself useful, then," he said, "and unpack that and put everything away."

The boy nodded and reached down to pick up the bag. His wrists were tiny, bird-like. Briefly Riker wondered what they would sound like if he snapped them.

"How old are you?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know," he answered.

"You'll call me sir," Riker said, picking up his portfolio. He walked into the kitchen, adjusted the light, and ordered a cup of coffee from the replicator. He sipped it, watching the boy still standing in the doorway.

"I asked you a question," he said. "How old are you?"

"I really don't know, sir," the boy said.

Riker put the cup down. "Let me see you," he said.

The boy set the bag down and let his trousers drop around his ankles.

"You're around twelve," Riker said. "You're almost too old. What a fuck-up."

"Do you not want me?" the boy asked.

"You'll do," Riker said shortly. "Go put my things away."

"Yes, sir," the boy said, and he dragged the bag into the bedroom.

Riker took another sip of his coffee, and then he dumped the rest of its contents into the sink. He opened the drawer beside the sink, lifted the false bottom, and placed the portfolio inside. He walked slowly out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where he paused in the doorway of the bedroom, and watched the boy put his clothes away.

"You won't tell me your name," he asked, "or you haven't got one?"

"Mr Behlar said I should let you name me," the boy answered.

"Really," Riker said. "In that case, I'll call you Billy."

He hadn't hurt the boy too much – after all, he was planning to spend several weeks here – and when he awoke, he just decided to let the boy sleep. The boy had been trained well, but had still been frightened when he realised that he wasn't just a simple fuck. Riker wondered if Behlar was paying the boy, or if the boy owed him. There'd been some money invested in him. He was clean, he was docile, and he was pretty when he cried.

He stretched and took his time in the shower, washing off the travel grime, the grit that sonic showers could never quite clean. Then he cut his hair and shaved off his beard, cleaned his teeth, clipped his nails. He had never been a tall man, but he still had muscle mass and tone, no mean feat for someone his age. Satisfied, he dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, leaving his feet bare, and walked into the kitchen. Behlar had left the kitchen stocked with real food, and he made himself a real pot of coffee and some toast. He ate at the table, lingering over a second cup, wondering how long the boy would sleep. He could use this time to get some work done, he thought; when the boy woke –

He fetched his padd from the bedroom and sat down on the sofa in the living area. He'd filled his cup a third time but he knew he probably wouldn't drink it. He set it on the coffee table and opened up the padd. Finally, there was a response from Picard. It was brief, saying only that there had been complications, but that William was in treatment and starting to improve. It asked that he communicate with them – Will's doctor wanted to speak with him. Well, Picard had said they would ask him for more information, but he'd assumed he'd be conversing with Picard. Who the hell was Will's doctor, and why would it be necessary to speak to him?

Riker thought back to the fraught conversation he'd had with Picard. Picard had given him no information at all about what Will had done, or what Will's diagnosis was, claiming that he didn't need to know. And he'd been insulting – and presumptuous as well. Of course Will would say that all of his problems were his father's fault. He'd been singing that song since he was old enough to talk. But Will had had problems before his mother died – he'd been wild, hard to manage, impossible to discipline, and Betty – and it had been thirty-five years since she'd died and so it didn't pain him anymore to acknowledge it – Betty had spoiled him, had encouraged him to be as out-of-control as he'd been. He wondered what exactly the 'Fleet had to say about William's so-called injury. He wondered if Picard had reported what Will had done. Picard had acknowledged – to Riker's amazement – his emotional attachment to his son. Perhaps Picard had not reported anything at all to Starfleet. Surely he would have heard by now from San Francisco if William had attempted suicide. William would have been relieved of duty and would have been sent to a hospital somewhere; he wouldn't still be on the flagship.

Well. There was information to be had, here. He dealt in information – it was his specialty. He'd find out exactly what Picard had reported, and when – and just who William's doctor was. Then – and only then – would he think about the kind of information he might be willing to pass on to Jean-Luc Picard. Riker's hand travelled to his crotch, and he wondered if the boy Billy had awakened yet.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty-Three

I'd left sickbay for the first time in two weeks, to be walked – very slowly – by Mr da Costa from Deck Twelve to Deck Eight, where three of the unfinished rooms had been turned into Dr McBride's office, the new treatment room, and the hyperbaric chamber. It seemed as if I hadn't walked anywhere in ages, and my legs were weak and shaky by the time I got to the room where the hyperbaric chamber was.

The chamber itself wasn't a chamber – strangely old-fashioned word that that was – at all, but a small room within the room, encased in glass. Inside the room was a decent-sized bed and nothing else. However, the outside room was filled with equipment, and both Dr McBride and a med tech named Poijula were waiting for me.

"You'll find some pyjamas to change into in the dressing room, Commander," da Costa said.

I nodded and went in and changed into some very loose-fitting pyjamas. There were hooks on the wall, and I hung up my trousers and my shirt. I took my shoes off and then returned to the main room.

"Once you are lying in the bed, William," Dr McBride informed me, "we will begin to add the oxygenated air to the chamber. The air will feel cool to you, so I recommend you use the blanket. All you have to do is relax. You can sleep, if you feel tired – and the extra oxygen may make you feel tired – or you can practise one of your visualisation exercises. You'll be in the chamber for forty minutes."

"And that's all that happens?" I asked.

"Most clients," da Costa said, "enjoy listening to music while they're in the chamber. I know you're a musician, sir, so I programmed into our computer a variety of musical selections which will last approximately forty minutes. You'll see that there's a sound system in the chamber. We can speak to you, and you can speak to us. If you have questions, or you need help, you have only to tell us what you need. If you'll take a look at the program, sir –" da Costa stepped away from the computer terminal he was at – "you can scroll through the selections and choose what you want to hear."

"Have you programmed any Mozart?" I asked.

"You won't, as a musician, William, find Mozart too stimulating?" McBride said. "The point is to get your mind to relax, not think about music. I find I'm unable to think about anything except the music when I'm listening to Mozart."

"Are you a musician, then?" I asked.

"I wouldn't call myself one, no," McBride answered, smiling. "Certainly not in the capacity that you are. Lt Patel has been telling me about your band."

"I find Mozart – as long as the piece is in a major key – to be soothing," I said. "I can hear the score and that always relaxes me."

"Take a look at these two programs, then," da Costa said.

The first one he showed me were fairly obvious selections – sort of Mozart's greatest hits – but the other selection consisted of a few string quartets and a piano concerto, so I chose that one. I walked into the chamber and got into the bed, and was relieved that my feet didn't hang off the edge.

"Are you comfortable now, sir?" da Costa asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Is this a good volume for you?"

"Yes."

I could hear the beginning of the String Quartet Number 14 in G major, and I closed my eyes.

It seemed as if it were only twenty seconds later that da Costa was in the chamber and waking me, helping me up because I was a little dizzy and disoriented, and walking me back to the dressing room. I changed out of the pyjamas back into my clothes, put my shoes back on, and decided that, other than feeling tired, I didn't feel any different at all.

"You won't notice anything for two weeks, Commander," da Costa said.

"Where's Dr McBride?" I asked.

"He just wanted to make sure you were okay going in," da Costa answered. "We didn't know if enclosed spaces would be an issue for you."

"I'm a shuttle pilot," I said. "And I can still fit in a Jefferies tube."

"Yes, sir," da Costa said. He walked over to the replicator and came back with a drink. "Dr Crusher wanted me to give this to you before I walk you back up to rehab."

I looked at it. "What is it?" It looked disgusting.

"I believe it's some sort of protein shake," he said.

I sighed. "I hate this," I said. "I hate everything about this. I keep hoping that I'll go to sleep and wake to find it's all been an elaborate plot by Q."

"You really should drink the shake, sir," da Costa replied.

"I know that," I said. "I'm not stupid."

Wisely, da Costa refrained from commenting, and I took a few sips of the shake, which had the consistency of sludge. I think it had the flavouring of sludge, too.

"The whole thing?" I said. I felt as if I were ten and being forced to eat Brussels sprouts.

"I'm sorry, sir. Dr Crusher's orders."

"Well, we wouldn't want to cross her, I guess," I said. Somehow I managed to get the damned thing down without gagging. "Lead on, MacDuff."

"Sir?"

I rolled my eyes. "Forget it, Mr da Costa," I said. "Back to Deck Twelve?"

"Aye, sir."

He got rid of the container and I followed him out into the empty corridor towards the turbo lift.

"Where is everyone?" I said.

Deck Eight was mostly crew quarters, including my own – knowing da Costa, there was no point at all in asking if I could just go to my quarters – as well as offices, including Deanna's. There should have been movement, but the corridor seemed abandoned.

"Captain's orders, sir," da Costa said.

"He cleared the corridor so I could go to the hyperbaric chamber?" I wondered briefly if he had lost his mind.

"The corridors to Decks Eight and Twelve, and the turbo lift," da Costa said. "Temporarily, of course."

"Of course," I said. He _had_ lost his mind. Maybe it was a fucking epidemic. Soon the whole senior staff would be down with it. "The explanation being - ?"

Da Costa shrugged in that elegant European way, almost as if he'd been taking lessons from Jean-Luc. "The captain does not explain his orders to me, sir," he reminded me gently.

I looked down at him, and then I grinned. "No," I said. "He often doesn't explain them to me, either."

The doors to the turbo lift opened, we got on, and da Costa told it to go to Deck Twelve. It was reasonable, I supposed, not to see too many people in the corridor of Deck Eight mid-shift, but it was eerie to have the corridor empty at sickbay. Jean-Luc had said I would see him after dinner; I would tell him that it was disturbing to walk on an empty ship. Maybe, reason would return.

Rehab was as I expected. I've worked with Jai and his crew before. They're good at what they do; all business, but in a relaxed and friendly way. I had cardio rehab and he wanted to begin work on my arms as well. There was nothing really strenuous, which was, obviously, the point; upper body exercises, walking on the treadmill, the stationary bike, and aerobic steps. The arm therapy was merely a series of stretches, using the bands, and then picking things up. It was no big deal, but I had had no exercise for two weeks; I'd had no large muscle movement, and I'd just walked down to Deck Eight and back to Deck Twelve. I was wrung out when he was done. He'd gotten me to drink some water, and then he commed Mr da Costa to escort me back to sickbay.

I tried not to be too annoyed; after all, what did they think I was going to do? Take the captain's yacht out for a spin?

Deanna was waiting for me when we arrived.

"How are you, Will?" she asked.

"Wiped out," I said. "I have this meeting now?"

"Yes," she answered. "We'll keep it brief."

"That's good," I said, "because I'm sure I could use a shower."

The meeting was being held in Beverly's office, and I followed Deanna in. Beverly's office had been slightly rearranged to allow for three chairs to be in a semi-circle around her desk. McBride was beside her, and Deanna and I sat in front of her desk. Beverly and McBride were sipping tea, and Beverly offered Deanna hot chocolate, which she took. She offered me water, which I declined; I waited for her to lecture me about my fluid intake, but she didn't say anything.

"How did rehab go, Will?" she asked.

"Good," I said. "I'm very badly out of shape."

"Yes," she agreed. "You've lost weight and muscle mass. You've been in bed too long."

"Jai will whip me back into shape," I said.

"And your experience in the hyperbaric chamber, Commander?" McBride asked.

"It was fine," I said. "I was asleep, so there's nothing really to say about it."

"Good, I'm glad you chose to rest," McBride said.

I looked at Beverly. "Thanks for the protein shake," I said. "It was lovely."

"Will," Deanna scolded.

"Did you drink it?" Beverly said, her CMO voice firmly in place.

"Aye, sir," I said. "Every glorious drop."

"Don't mess with me, Commander," she responded.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," I replied, and she smiled.

McBride opened his padd and said, "We're going to briefly describe your afternoon CBT – Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – program. This will be lead by me, although you will find that Counsellor Troi and Mr da Costa will be sitting in on many of the sessions, for training purposes. Is that acceptable to you, Commander?"

"Yes," I said. What was I going to say? No? It's not as if I had any emotional privacy anymore.

My relationship with Jean-Luc was on display for all of sickbay, and probably the news of it was all over the ship by now. In fact, I'm sure the news of everything was all over the ship by now.

"What's the matter, Will?" Deanna asked, placing her hand on my arm. "You're anxious again. Are you worried about Joao sitting in on your sessions?"

"No," I said. "It just occurred to me that I don't have any privacy anymore, that's all."

"Will," Beverly said, "everyone on your treatment team is obligated to maintain patient confidentiality. You know this."

"And the orderlies? The med techs? At PT?" I asked.

"William," Dr McBride said quietly, "we have already discussed this issue. You agreed to let it go, remember? Dr Crusher is perfectly capable of running her staff. Captain Picard is perfectly capable of maintaining his crew."

"I don't want anyone's pity," I said. "I don't want the crew looking at me, knowing what my father did –" I couldn't say anymore.

"I know, Will," Deanna said. "Of course you don't want that. And only your team knows the content of your memories, and then only on a need-to-know basis."

"All right," I said, leaning back into the chair.

"We can continue?" Dr McBride asked. He was using the tone he specifically used for me, the same one that da Costa employed. Briefly I wondered if using G major to modulate your voice was therapeutic.

I nodded.

"Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is nothing new, Commander," McBride said. "It's been used since the end of the twentieth century. You are suffering from severe anxiety and depression, you have intrusive negative thoughts and terrifying memories and flashbacks, and your self is fragmented. We will take a therapeutic approach to your thoughts and feelings, with the goal of retraining you, of giving you the skills to establish new thought patterns and to handle not just the traumatic situations of the past, but also whatever traumatic situations you might face in the future. Are you with me so far, William?"

"Yes," I said.

"There are number of different areas where we will work, especially in the beginning of your treatment program," McBride said. "As you master one area, we will move on to the next. However, major areas of concern – memory retrieval, intrusion, and re-integration of self – will be a continuing process. These are the areas that require the most skill on the part of the therapist, and will require the most time on your part."

Deanna said, "The beginning steps of your CBT therapy will seem very much like the worksheets I gave you last week, Will. We'll do a cost benefit analysis for types of feelings – anger, for example – and we will have sessions that will concentrate on affect management, arousal reduction, and anger management. You will be setting therapeutic goals for yourself within the program, and also for the future."

"What the hell is all of that when it's at home?" I asked.

I was rewarded with Deanna's rolling her eyes. "Affect management is recognizing and naming your feelings," she answered. "Arousal reduction will help you with your anxiety and your constant need to be aware of your surroundings. We call that hypervigilance, Will, when it's not at home." She smiled. "And certainly, Mr Riker, you know what anger management is."

"Learning not to punch doors?" I asked.

"Exactly," she answered.

"The program, William," McBride said, "is designed to help you help yourself. It will require a great deal of introspection on your part, something you may not be comfortable with at all. Most men are uncomfortable with reflection and analysing their thoughts and feelings; that's perfectly normal. And you have negative associations with many feelings, so you have spent most of your life trying to avoid feeling anything. Still, I believe you are a good candidate for this type of therapy. I believe that once you understand it, and you don't feel threatened by it, you will find that your journey towards healing will be a positive experience."

I sighed. I knew – I knew that McBride was legitimate; I knew he had my best interests at heart, and I knew that Jean-Luc personally believed that he could help me. In fact, he had helped me, several times. But when he said things like my "journey towards healing…." Well. I was trying to behave this afternoon.

"Okay," I said.

"Do you have any questions, Commander?" McBride asked.

"No," I said. Then I said, "This will be my schedule every afternoon?"

"Yes," Deanna answered. "After your downtime, you start CBT."

"Every day?"

"It's called the intensive treatment program, Will," Deanna said, but she said it softly.

"No breaks," I said, "from the treatment, then?"

"Young man," Dr McBride said, "you don't have the time for breaks."

No. I knew I didn't.

Deanna had given me the padd with my schedule on it, so that I'd familiarise myself with it, and then had informed me that she'd programmed in some "games" that I could play on it.

"Games?" I said. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, Will," she answered patiently. "These are short, fun games with a therapeutic purpose to them. They are to aid in your recovery and brain retraining."

"The games are supposed to fix my brain?" I repeated.

"Really, Will," she said, beginning to show signs of the real Deanna I knew and loved. "Yes. Everything we're doing is to fix your brain, as you put it."

"And I play them – and they do what?" I asked.

"Memory retention. Pattern recognition. Cause and effect. Logical reasoning."

"Okay," I said. "You don't have to get snippy."

"William Thomas Riker," she said. "I will be snippy with you if you warrant it, which you certainly do right now."

I grinned. "Perhaps you should go to Ten Forward and have a chocolate sundae," I said.

"You know, you are not the only person on this ship who throws things," she responded, and I laughed.

"You can't throw anything at me, Deanna, I'm the walking wounded."

"My arse," she retorted, laughing. "Here's Guinan with your supper, Will. I will see you tomorrow for your morning session with me."

"Well, this is certainly a conversation I've heard before," Guinan said. "Nice to see you two are still bickering."

"It's all her fault," I said. "She's the mean one."

"You just keep telling yourself that, Commander," Deanna said, and she headed out.

"I can't stay with you, Will, as much as I'd like to," Guinan told me as Mr Stoch helped set up the tray table for me. "Your team expects me to feed and water them every night now."

"We have replicators," I said, sitting down.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to feed Picard from the replicator?"

"He eats from the replicator all the time," I said.

"Not in my joint, he doesn't," she said. "I hope you enjoy that, Will. It's very light and shouldn't bother your tummy at all."

I rolled my eyes at her. "My tummy," I said, "is just fine."

"That's good, then," she replied. "I will see you in the morning. You've already told me what you wanted for the morning, but we still have to discuss the rest of the week."

"Thanks," I said. "This does look good."

She left, and I was able – for the first time since the week before, maybe, I thought – to actually eat a meal without anything happening. Clearly salmon (and I knew it wasn't really salmon, but it tasted almost like it) and vegetables I could eat. She'd given me some sort of tea that tasted like different berries, and I was able to finish everything. Perhaps – if the Billy-part of me didn't sabotage anything anymore – Jean-Luc's idea about food for me would work.

"Will."

I felt Jean-Luc's hand on my shoulder.

"You're exhausted," he said. "Why don't you give me the padd and I'll help you into bed."

I'd been sitting in the chair, playing one of Deanna's memory games – I guessed I could eat crow tomorrow – and I must have dozed off.

"I don't want to go to bed," I said, stretching. "I was just waiting for you."

I handed him the padd.

"You were asleep, Number One," he said, amused. "Surely that suggests a need to go to bed."

"You won't be ready to go to bed now," I said. "And I wasn't really asleep. I was just pretending to be Spot."

He looked at me silently for a moment, and, once again I wondered how one judged insubordination while sleeping with the captain.

"Ah," he said in a neutral tone of voice. Then he said, "Cheeky bugger, aren't you? I thought you were afraid of the cat."

"The cat is vicious, sir," I said, trying not to laugh. "It nearly killed me the last time I had to deal with it."

"All seven pounds of it?" he asked. How he managed to keep a straight face I didn't know.

"I think it weighs more than seven pounds," I said. "I'm sure it does."

He made a noncommittal noise. "So you are clearly feeling rejuvenated now," he said.

"Sir," I said.

He ignored me. "The thing is, Number One," he said instead, "I had planned an outing for you – however, a certain amount of decorum is required. Is that something you think you can manage? Or would you prefer to continue to be Mr Data's cat?"

"I can do decorum," I said.

"Indeed," he responded. He shook his head. "I don't know."

I gave up. "Please, Jean-Luc," I said.

He grinned. "You'd better put some shoes on then, Mr Riker," he said. "You're not allowed to walk the decks of my ship in your socks."

I put my shoes back on, and tucked my shirt in, and followed Jean-Luc into the head, so I could comb my hair.

"I look as if I could star in Britten's _Noye's Fludde_," I said.

"As Noah or one of the animals?" he asked. "And please don't mention the damned cat again."

"I was thinking Noah," I answered. "Where are we going?"

"It is," he said, "a surprise that was approved by both your doctors. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I am," I said.

"Mr Stoch, we will see you in two hours," Jean-Luc said to Stoch as we left my room.

"Sir," Stoch acknowledged.

We left sickbay, and once again, the corridor to the turbo lift was empty.

"Where is everyone?" I asked. "Da Costa told me you'd ordered the corridors emptied earlier today as well."

We entered the turbo lift, and Jean-Luc said, "Deck Six."

"Deck Six?" I realised there was something I wasn't getting – Transporter Room 3 was on Deck Six.

"Will," he said. "You are recovering from two very serious medical emergencies. You have been isolated in sickbay and only exposed to the same small number of people. What do you think would happen with your compromised immune system if you were exposed to normal working conditions?"

"Oh," I said. "I guess that makes sense. It's pretty creepy, though, walking through empty corridors."

The turbo lift stopped, and we stepped out onto Deck Six.

"You're taking me to the barber," I said, surprised.

"We are bringing the mountain to Mohammad," Jean-Luc said. "Besides, I thought you would appreciate a little freedom."

"Aye, sir," I said. "Thank you."

Mr Mot was waiting for us, and had my chair ready.

"What have you done to the commander, Captain?" Mot said. "Look at him. He's a mess."

"What have I done?" Jean-Luc echoed.

I grinned; Mot had a somewhat adversarial relationship with Jean-Luc, and it was always amusing to see the two of them interact. "He's been holding me prisoner in sickbay," I said seriously. "However, I've been given a reprieve, just for today."

Mot said, "That wouldn't surprise me, Commander. He's always been annoyed that my tactical knowledge is better than his. You've always understood that."

I glanced at Jean-Luc, whose face was studiously blank.

"Mr Mot," he began. "You are not allowed to discuss tactics with Commander Riker today. He doesn't need to be made anxious."

Mot finished washing my hair and shot a look of irritation towards Jean-Luc.

"I am well aware of the condition of Commander Riker," he said, "Captain."

"Good," Jean-Luc said, sitting down. "That's settled, then."

"I am glad you are feeling well enough to be here, Commander," Mot continued. "Your presence has been missed."

"Thank you," I said.

I could tell it was a struggle for Mot to remain silent regarding his usual topic of conversation, which currently had consisted of the extant perfidy of the Cardassians and the idiocy of the Bajorans and the Federation as well. If there's no weather shipboard, and you aren't allowed to discuss politics, that leaves very little for a barber to talk about. Mot, however, was nothing if not inventive, and he spun me a rather convoluted story about a shipboard romance between two of the crew whom he did not name. For one horrifying moment I thought he was referring to me and Jean-Luc, and I had to use whatever little willpower I have left not to glance in Jean-Luc's direction. Jean-Luc, however, was simply enduring Mot's prattle silently, and I could tell he was both bored and mildly irritated. It took Mot almost forty minutes to be satisfied with my hair and beard, at which point I was not only anxious (because I could see the rising irritation in Jean-Luc) but also exhausted from the non-stop conversation.

Finally, Mot pronounced that he was satisfied with my appearance and I was able to leave his chair. I could hear my bones creaking as I got up.

"You look presentable again, Number One," Jean-Luc said. "Thank you, as always, Mr Mot."

"If you took better care of him, Captain," Mot retorted, "he would not have been in the condition he was in."

I cringed, waiting for the explosion that had been threatening for the past forty minutes, but Jean-Luc said, "He is getting the best of care, Mr Mot. There is no reason to worry."

"That's not what I heard," he said, but he appeared somewhat mollified.

I took my cue from Jean-Luc and said, "I have an excellent doctor, as you know, Mr Mot. I'll be back to duty soon."

"See that you are, Commander," he said. I thought for a moment he was going to say something about operations, but he thought better of it.

"Well, Number One," Jean-Luc said on the way back to the turbo lift, "I don't know about you, but I am exhausted from that ordeal."

"You shouldn't let him get to you, Jean-Luc," I said. "He means well."

"If you say so," Jean-Luc said, "being as you are his fair-haired boy."

I laughed. I followed him into the turbo lift, which he then stopped after the doors closed.

"So, Will." He paused. "I'd planned another small outing, but I'm a little concerned that we've already overdone it for you. You've had an exhausting day."

"I'm not tired, Jean-Luc," I said. "I had a really good sleep in the hyperbaric chamber, remember? And then I rested after my meeting with Deanna, Beverly, and Dr McBride."

"Will you promise to tell me as soon as you feel yourself starting to tire? Because I don't want you overextended, and I don't want you to wait until you're asleep on your feet."

"Yes," I said. "You aren't going to tell me where we're going?"

"You'll know in a minute," he answered, "as soon as I tell the computer which deck."

"I'll be fine," I said. "Take advantage of the fact that I'm actually feeling okay."

"Indeed," he said. "Deck Seventeen."

I grinned. "You're taking me to the Arboretum," I said, pleased.

He smiled back. "Your doctors thought it was a good idea," he said.

"It's a great idea," I said.

"Good."

The doors opened, and we walked quietly down the corridor to the Arboretum.

"You emptied the Arboretum too?" I asked.

He nodded. "Beverly doesn't want you exposed to even the possibility of something, Will. And your Dr McBride didn't want you to be over-stimulated by the presence of crew who haven't seen you in a fortnight."

He keyed open the doors to the Arboretum, and we walked in.

"How would the crew over-stimulate me?"

"Everyone is worried about you," he said simply. "They'd want to find out how you are, and when you are returning to work, and it would all be too much. You have been very sheltered, and for good reason."

"At some point I'll be allowed visitors?" I asked.

"When your doctors decide it, yes." He said, "Where would you like to go, Will?"

"The pond."

"The pond it is."

He took my hand, and we walked along the pathway to the small pond.

"Do you mind if I take off my shoes?" I asked. "I'd like to feel the grass."

"Of course I don't mind," he replied.

I joined him on the bench, and took my shoes and socks off. I stood up and walked across the grass to the pond, sitting down beside the flagstone wall. Jean-Luc stayed on the bench for a moment, and then he joined me.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

"Not as often as I'd like to," I said. I stretched my legs. "Sitting in that chair for so long was painful," I admitted.

"Not as painful as listening to Mr Mot."

I shook my head. "The two of you," I said. "I thought you were going to get physical there, for a moment."

"I considered it. Then I realised he was, as with everyone else, worried about you."

"I just agree with everything he says," I said, after a moment, "regardless of whatever it is he's saying. Never argue with a man holding a razor."

"Will," Jean-Luc protested, "he says the most outrageous things."

"I know," I said. "I usually hear a lot of outrageous things, during the course of my day."

"How about," he said, "since I am off duty and have chased everyone away, you let me hold you?"

"I thought," I said, "you would never ask."


	44. Interlude: Eleven

Interlude: Eleven

Alasdair McBride had been both surprised and pleased by the captain's request that he be allowed to take young Will Riker on an "outing," as Picard had so charmingly described it. Both Picard's ideas for the outing had been so therapeutically perfect that McBride found himself wishing that Picard had been destined for psychiatry rather than captaincy. Although, given the nature of Picard's reputation both as a captain and a diplomat, he shouldn't have been surprised that Picard's intuitive understanding of the human psyche was so on target. Will Riker was a good-looking young man; a man accustomed to using his looks – that teasing smile of his, for example – and his height as a way to charm compliance from even the most intransigent; even the dour young Vulcan crewman Stoch had been converted into one of Riker's followers. That Picard – smitten as he himself obviously was with the young man – would understand so intrinsically that William would need every one of his weapons at the ready to do battle with his enemy, should suggest that William be taken to the barber so that William could be his usual dapper self – well, McBride could only shake his head in wonder. He'd been happy to give Picard permission, as it were, to let William go on his outing; anything to allow the commander a chance to feel whole, to feel normal. The second suggestion – that the outing should be extended so that William could go to the ship's garden, their Arboretum – well, he'd hand Picard his diploma in psychiatry now and get it over with. One of the symptoms of the commander's illness was the disconnect between self and the physical body the self inhabited; as the patient continued to deteriorate towards psychosis the disconnect became more profound. The treatment was simple and obvious, and yet McBride had found many of his colleagues unable to understand the concept at all. Their reliance on medication to treat symptoms when the illness was so much more innate was a source of ongoing frustration. When Deanna Troi had first contacted him about his intensive treatment program, with the suggestion to implement it as standard medical treatment on the galaxy and constitution class starships, he'd realised at once that this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, to demonstrate that his holistic approach to treatment of this illness was the best therapeutic model available. William Riker's case was perfect in that regard; here was a rising star in the 'Fleet, many times decorated, whose unorthodox behaviour had often been the source of his greatest successes, and yet – the young man's career had stalled to the point where there was concern about his abilities – and then, with the contact from Picard and Troi, the source of concern was revealed: one of the severest forms of complex PTSD he'd ever come across.

McBride, sipping his milky tea in his newly-opened office, turned his mind back to his original train of thought; Picard's outing in the Arboretum, giving William the chance to reconnect with his five senses, to bring him out of his dissociation and into his physical body by having him in a natural setting. He'd seen William's holodeck programs – including the three that Picard had been so concerned about – and was aware of the young man's love of outdoors; perfect physical therapy for him, indeed; to be in the extra-oxygenated air of a real garden. Picard's suggestion that the decks be cleared of occupants for William's travel to PT and his therapies, as well as his outings, had immediately secured the agreement of Dr Crusher – himself, as well, he noted. He'd been worried that they would have to transport the commander to Deck Eight – but Picard's elegant solution had relieved them of that necessity, a worry given William's frail physical health.

Well. He stood up, stretched, adjusted the level of the music that was playing – a sonata for the Vulcan lyre – and cleared away his tea-things. He was putting off, he knew, the work he must do, because he couldn't quite see his way clear to the approach to the situation and because he was afraid – and he was a man who wasn't normally afraid of much – that he and Picard had made a fundamental mistake. He'd learned a great deal about Picard in the days that he had been aboard the ship, in watching the captain as he handled William and William's illness; in observing Picard's interactions with his crew, and in the meeting he'd had with Picard and in their impromptu briefings on Ten Forward. Picard's grasp of the situation at hand, for someone who was enmeshed in the situation, was extraordinary – but there'd been a few mistakes before he'd come onboard, and he was afraid that one of those mistakes – that first interview with Kyle Riker – was going to come back to haunt them.

He sat down on his sofa – Betazoid, as he'd insisted – and then bent over to remove his shoes and socks. He arranged himself in his meditation position – feet flat on the deck, hands resting lightly on his knees – and closed his eyes, looking inward to his centre. He floated in free space for a minute or so before taking himself through a simple grounding exercise, and then he found himself once again in his mother's water garden, the place where he felt the most connected to nature, and his family, and his heritage, and his true self. He began with a simple Hebrew prayer – and then went on to mentally recite a program of psalms that both helped free his mind and open his _neshomo_, his spirit to the sparks of the _Shekhina_, which would allow him to accept the sought-for solution to his problem. He ended his meditation with the closing prayer from the ancient Aramaic of the _Amidah_ –May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable before you, Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer – and took several deep cleansing breaths before opening his eyes and contemplating the problem at hand.

Picard had received a request for an update on Will's status from his father, and he'd advised the captain to send a brief and formal response, indicating that there'd been complications in Will's health but that he was recovering and responding to treatment, and requesting contact. He'd agreed with Picard that he should be the one to speak with Kyle Riker; Picard had confessed that his prior interview with the man had ended somewhat abruptly because, as Picard had said in that terse way of his, "I could not contain my anger."

Given the latest in the memory retrieval, however, McBride now wondered if that contact hadn't been a mistake. The type of man that Kyle Riker was had been revealed for those who knew what they were looking for; he'd suspected evil, and evil was certainly what he'd found. As a psychiatrist he'd been intimately acquainted with evil dressed up as human (or humanoid) on a number of occasions; patients referred to him, often through legal channels, or sometimes by families, when the patient was young. The line of victims was usually long by the time he saw these individuals; he could recognise and give the diagnosis – depending on the culture, sociopath, psychopath, anti-social personality disorder – but as for treatment….Well, the universe was littered with the broken bodies and minds of doctors who had tried to treat patients such as these. Given a patient young enough – generally before puberty – reattachment could occur – he'd done it himself – but he usually never saw these patients before they'd begun their paths of destruction.

When he'd realised that no one had taken the time to correct William Riker's assumption that he'd killed nine-year-old Christian Larsen, it hadn't been that far of a mental leap to conclude that the information had been deliberately withheld from the child. After all, other information had been deliberately withheld from the child that William Riker had been, that poor little boy named Billy. The boy had been repeatedly told that he'd caused the death of his mother; he'd been deliberately allowed to see pictures of the happy family that they had been – mother, father, baby – and then told he'd been the instrument of its destruction. He'd been given family stories, according to both Deanna and Jean-Luc, to back up that picture – enough stories about his mother and her habits that he'd been able to attend kindergarten and pretend that she'd been still alive. That was a story that Will Riker had used, according to his friend Lt Commander LaForge, to illustrate one's need to accept the reality of death – which made the timing of the story all the more profoundly sad. The child had recreated his mother, out of the memories he'd been spoon-fed, as a way to keep his ego intact – even though he'd been told that he'd been the cause of her death – he'd still used her as a talisman to protect himself from the physical rapes that had started the week prior to his first attending kindergarten: if she'd been alive, his father wouldn't be raping him. When the well-meaning but completely ignorant kindergarten teacher had forced the child to accept the reality of his mother's death – complicit with the no-doubt empathic understanding of the father – the child had been forced to accept the reality of his survival: that he must submit to the horrific physical and sexual abuse in order to live. Only his metaphorical closet – and the metaphor of that closet, given the nature of Will Riker's relationship with his captain, was so poignant – was able to keep the part of the child's shattered ego intact.

And then the child had been deliberately kept isolated – information that once again, Jean-Luc Picard had realised, with his keen intuition – from the family that surrounded him. Who had told the child to call his aunt and uncle Mr and Mrs Shugak? Who had hired his aunt and uncle – and paid them, regularly, in credits – to act as housekeeper and caretaker of the Riker cabin? Who had told the boy – a boy who was growing up in a village in which just about every member was a relative in one form or another - that he had no one in the world except the man who was systematically torturing him? Why else would the clear-eyed, eminently rational Lt Commander Elizaveta Christianssen Riker request the boy be brought up in Alaska at all – Kyle Riker was not from Alaska – if it weren't because she'd assumed that her family would be there to help her husband rear her child?

They were, as Jean-Luc Picard had so succinctly said, the actions of a monster. And that monster was alive and well and privy to information that Picard had given him about his son – that his son had been in a life-threatening accident, that his son's memories of the abuse he'd undergone were surfacing, that Picard wanted help – and would brook no obstruction – in decoding the memories that were tormenting William Riker. Picard had detailed the conversation he'd had with Kyle Riker; McBride was aware that Riker had figured out that it had been a suicide attempt and Picard had all but confirmed it; and Riker had contributed information regarding two of the his son's flashbacks. Picard had even revealed to Kyle Riker his relationship with Riker's son.

So now Kyle Riker had all the ammunition he needed – William Riker was still aboard the flagship; he had not been relieved of duty or hospitalised but was being treated shipboard – and motivation for doing as much damage as possible. What was the level of protection that surrounded Kyle Riker in the Federation and in Starfleet? What was the nature of Riker's real work for those organisations? Somehow McBride doubted that Riker was the civilian troubleshooter and diplomat of far space that he claimed to be. Evidence of William Riker's abuse had been covered up for years – by the same organisation that had given the boy early admission to the Academy and fast-tracked him for command before the young man himself had put the halt to Starfleet's plans by refusing the captaincy of the ship his father had wanted for him. He had to wonder if the fact that the second ship William Riker was offered captaincy of – the ill-fated _Melbourne_ – was a set-up as well. After all, it had been one of the first ships to be destroyed by the Borg.

It was time, McBride thought, to bring in the influence he had to bear. He didn't know whether Kyle Riker had already put into action whatever damage control he'd decided upon – but he had to act with the knowledge that he had of the beast. Riker would have a contingency plan for just this scenario. He would go about it logically and coldly and rationally. It would destroy his son – and anyone who advocated for him. If that took down the celebrated Jean-Luc Picard, well – Picard was not without his own enemies. Picard had told Will himself that he was not without his own influence – and McBride knew for a fact that Deanna Troi had more influence than anyone else on the _Enterprise_, even though she had never once called it in.

It wouldn't be enough, McBride knew, to treat William Riker and help him recover from his illness. He would have to marshal the forces of whatever good was left in the Federation and Starfleet to surround and protect the young man from the evil and corruption that was his father and his father's allies, even as he suspected that those allies were the rotting heart and soul of both those organisations.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter Forty-Five

It was extraordinary, to be lying on the grassy slope by the pond in Jean-Luc's arms, my head pressed against his ribs, listening to his heart beating, feeling his fingers card through my hair. I recalled lying in such a way on Betazed with Deanna in my arms, in a similar position to the one I was in now, and yet I don't think I have ever felt as comfortable, or as right, as I did now. Perhaps it was the combined influence of Deanna's forcing me to be in my physical body, and Dr McBride's confidence in me that I could understand my own emotions and the reasons why I felt the way I did, but I was present – is that the word I wanted to use? – in a way I don't think I have ever been. I could feel the grass on my feet, the cool ground beneath me, could hear the water as it trickled down the stones into the pond, could smell the freshness of the grass and some floral scent I couldn't identify; could feel Jean-Luc's strength and his calm around me. He'd simply accepted the reality of his feelings for me and was perfectly comfortable in expressing that reality to me – and I realised that his doing so alleviated my need to always be in control, to always be aggressive, to always be what I really wasn't: the pursuer, the charmer, the entertainer. I didn't have to be any of those things anymore. I could just lie here in his arms and be me.

"I don't suppose," I said, hesitantly, "that you'd be interested in making love to me?"

He tightened his hold on me and I could feel him smiling as he kissed my hair.

"Seeing as how there's no one here," I added, "and there isn't going to be, until you give the all-clear. You could hardly be considered an exhibitionist under these circumstances, Jean-Luc."

He laughed. "You are a terrible influence on me, Mr Riker," he said, and he kissed the back of my neck. "I am not sure that you have medical clearance for this sort of activity, Will, seeing as how you're only one day out of the ICU."

I sighed. "I was afraid you'd mention that," I said. "It was worth a try, though."

"I don't know that I'd want to be the one to tell Dr Crusher," he said, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh, "that I had killed my first officer in a compromising position."

"I could promise not to attempt to die this time," I said, "for what it's worth."

He was still. Then he bent down, and pulled my face up to his, so I had to look at him. His eyes were that dark colour they got when he was very serious. "That promise, William," he said, "would be worth a great deal to me, if you are serious about making it."

I said, "I feel as if I could live, now. I don't know what's changed."

"Oh, Will," he said, "_mon cher_, _mon cœur_, for you to say that to me, now, you have no idea –"

"I think," I answered, as I came up for a breath, "I have some idea, Jean-Luc."

"_Tu es mon garçon doux_," he said, and regardless of what Beverly Crusher might have prescribed, we made love there on the grass beside the pond.

I think I was drifting off to sleep when he said, "They will be sending out a search party soon, I'm afraid. Will? Let's get you dressed, and back to sickbay."

"It would be poor Mr Stoch," I said, "and he would be shocked to his very core."

"The Vulcans are far more enlightened than you give them credit for," Jean-Luc said, handing me my shorts and my trousers. He stood up, and slipped into his own clothes.

"Oh, I know they're generally enlightened," I said, brushing grass off my legs before I pulled my trousers up. "It was Mr Stoch I was thinking of. He's very young, and very sheltered."

He handed me my shirt. "Perhaps," he said, "but he still knows the captain sleeps with you most nights."

I nodded. "Something the whole ship knows, no doubt," I said, buttoning my shirt up.

He'd walked over to the bench, and was pulling on his socks, but he stopped and said, "Does that bother you, Will? That the crew might know of our relationship?"

"Do they?" I asked. I joined him at the bench, and bent down to put on my own socks and shoes.

He shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked again. "I know that in the past I have been concerned over having a relationship with someone on board, primarily because it has – and it will – put me in the difficult position of having to endanger the life of someone I love. But you're not concerned about that, I don't think."

"No," I said. "Despite what you've just said, the truth is – and I know you well enough to know this, Jean-Luc – that you already have sent those you care about – and love – many times into danger. We don't talk about it. Maybe it's bad luck to talk about it. But some years ago we became a family on this ship – and I know how you feel every single time you send me, and Geordi, and Worf, and any of us on an away mission."

I'd finished putting on my shoes, and he pulled me into him for a kiss. "My cover is blown," he said, and I grinned.

"It's been gone for some time," I said. "We all know this."

He shrugged. "And your concern is what, then, Will? That we're men?"

"No," I said slowly, "I don't think so. I didn't know that you'd been with men before – but it's never seemed to matter too much to me, one way or the other. But then I think sex – in the past – for me has been quite different. I don't know that I am that person, now."

"That person was lost, I think," Jean-Luc said, "and looking for something – or someone – to anchor him."

I said, "In that case, he has found his anchor."

He took my hand, and we walked back down the path towards the doors of the Arboretum.

"And your concern?" he persisted.

"Privacy, maybe," I said. "I've never really felt this way before. I don't think I've felt much, before."

"We have been discreet," he said. "As far as sickbay goes, I believe you have been told that there is confidentiality involved. And as for the senior staff – I'm not sure what they know or don't know. No one," and he grinned at me, "has had the nerve to bring it up." We were in front of the turbo lift, and as the doors opened, he said, waiting for me to step inside, "Deck Twelve. Mr Data knows that I spend the night here, as indeed he must. Other than that…."

"Perhaps," I said, "I just want to keep you all to myself."

He quirked an eyebrow at me, and then he laughed. "Indeed," he said. "And here I thought I would be the possessive one in this relationship."

The doors opened to Deck Twelve, and he continued to hold my hand as we walked back to sickbay. "Are you?" I asked. "Possessive?"

We'd stopped in front of the doors to sickbay, and he took me in his arms and pulled my face down to his. "Yes," he said simply. "You," he said, "are mine, and while I am aware that you use your considerable charm as a technique to run this ship, you will no longer employ it as a method to attract others to you."

I grinned. "Is that an order, sir?" I asked.

"An order I expect to be obeyed," he answered.

Sickbay was quiet. I reported in to Dr Sandoval, and he had Lt Fisk take my vitals, and then asked if I needed a sedative before I retired. Jean-Luc left me to go fetch his things from his quarters, as he hadn't spent the night with me since I'd collapsed three days before. I let Stoch accompany in the head so I could shower, and took the water shower I needed anyway; it didn't bother me as much as it had, for some reason. There was enough privacy, I guessed, for me to disrobe in the shower and then hand him my clothes. I dried myself off and put my pyjama bottoms on, and then stepped out of the shower to finish dressing and to finish readying for bed.

"You had a good outing, sir?" Stoch asked in a companionable way as he gathered up my clothes for me.

I was brushing my teeth, and I nodded. I finished, and left the head, and he followed me into my room.

"Do you have clean clothes for the morning, sir?" he asked.

It was weird, having to worry about what to wear. Six days of the week I wear my uniform; I have several, rotate them, and never think about it. Having to figure out what to wear was something I was no longer in the habit of doing.

"I don't know," I said.

"Since you're going to be here for sometime," Stoch said, "we should really give you a dresser, and send someone to get you everything you need from your quarters."

"Am I supposed to spend the whole six weeks of treatment here?" I asked. I hadn't thought about it before; I think I just assumed that at some point I'd be promoted to day patient status.

"I believe that is Dr McBride's intention, sir," Stoch answered. "Mr da Costa would be better informed."

"Mr da Costa," I said, "seems to know everything."

Stoch rewarded me with a rare smile. "Yes, sir," he said. "He is quite remarkable."

I grinned. "I suppose so," I answered. "Perhaps Counsellor Troi will allow me to go to my quarters tomorrow, so I can pack up what I need. I'll ask her, when I see her in the morning. In the meantime, I'll just wear these again," and I took my clothes from Stoch, folded them, and placed them on the night table beside my bed.

"The captain will be here tonight?" Stoch asked.

"Yes," I said. "I'm afraid it's chair duty for you."

"It is not a hardship, Commander," he replied. "I do not want you to think that it is. I am very privileged to be working with you, sir."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said merely, "Thank you, Mr Stoch."

Lt Fisk came in with a handful of meds for me to take, and a cup of water.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"Your heart medication," he answered, "your blood pressure medication, your pain medication, and a sedative. You don't really need everything in a hypo spray, do you?"

"No," I said, taking the pills from him and swallowing them. "My neck thanks you for your consideration. I've a permanent bruise there."

He glanced at my neck, and then he smiled. "Duly noted, sir," he said. "What is your pain level, as long as we're discussing our poor treatment of you?"

I had to think. "I haven't been paying attention," I said, surprised. "I was sore after rehab. I guess," and I flexed my arms, "no more than a three. That's the best it's ever been," I said, and I smiled.

"Good," Fisk said. "The more time you spend in rehab, the less long-term pain you'll have, Commander. Lt Patel will be pleased with this report."

I placed the cup of water on the night table too, and then climbed into my bed. "I don't know that I needed the sedative," I said. "I'm tired, now. It's been a long day."

"It's to make sure you don't wake up in the middle of the night, sir," Fisk explained. "That's been a problem for you, I know. Now that you're starting your program, it's important that you get a full night's sleep."

I yawned. "I think I'll be able to tonight," I said.

"Good night, Commander," Fisk answered, and he left the room.

"You're staying with me, Mr Stoch, until the captain returns?" I asked. I slid down under the covers, and closed my eyes.

"Yes, sir," Stoch replied. "I'm right here, sir. You don't have to worry. You won't be left alone, sir."

"No," I said, "I don't want to be left alone."

"I know, sir," Stoch said, and it sounded as if he were right beside me. "You're safe with me, sir. You know that."

I did know that. I could feel myself start to drift off, and then I heard Jean-Luc say, "I have him now, Mr Stoch. I will see you in the morning."

"Aye, Captain," Stoch said, and I felt the bed sink as Jean-Luc slid in next to me.

"Are you still awake, Will?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Come here to me, then," he said, and I turned to him, and he wrapped me in his arms and kissed me on my cheek. "Sleep well, _mon cher_," he said. "I'm right here, now. You can rest."

"I love you, Jean-Luc," I said, and I felt him kiss my hair.

"I know," he replied. "Just sleep now, Will."

I slept.


	46. Chapter 46

Author's Note: As with most of the chapters that return to William Riker's childhood, this chapter contains psychological abuse and violence. Please do not read this chapter if you are susceptible to triggers.

Chapter Forty-Six

William hadn't felt all that well when he joined Matt and Rosie on the field for their game. He didn't know what was wrong, just that he felt strange and somewhat woozy and out of sorts. When Coach Mike told him he was pitching he simply nodded; he'd pitched through pain before and no one had ever noticed. Still, the pain he felt as he warmed up on the mound was different, in a way, and he wasn't sure why. He'd taken a bath before leaving the house, to try to relax his leg muscles and soothe away some of the stiffness; his father was in Juneau at the Federation offices and Mrs Shugak was used to him soaking his muscles before a game. His butt was sore from where his father had beaten him, but the pain was inside, it seemed. He wondered if it were possible to be bruised inside.

Rosie watched him carefully, watched him stretch his legs and go into his windup, rear and rock back and then let the ball go, a zippy fastball with enough punch to it to cause terror in the bravest of eight-year-olds. She caught his practise pitches and then walked up to the mound when the umpire told them to play ball.

"What's wrong, Will?" she asked.

He looked down at her, his blue eyes vaguely anxious. He'd been hoping that he could cover the pain. He shrugged. "Nothing," he said. He tried smiling, and found he still could. "They suck, Rosie," he said. "No worries."

"You hurt," Rosie said in that stubborn way she sometimes had. "I'm going to tell Coach Mike."

William felt the panic rise in his chest, although he didn't understand why he was so afraid. "There's nothing wrong with me," he told Rosie firmly.

The umpire, Mr Sutherland from school, walked up to them. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No," William said. "We're ready."

"Play ball, then," Mr Sutherland told them, and William nodded.

Rosie shrugged, and waited until Mr Sutherland left the mound. "You hurt," she repeated. "I'm not gonna let you mess yourself up."

She walked slowly off the mound, and crouched behind the plate. William heard Matt and Sammy behind him begin a chorus of "No batter, no batter," and he waited for the Bears' centerfielder to finish fidgeting at the plate. He watched Rosie's fingers, and went into his motion; the bat never left the centerfielder's shoulders, and Mr Sutherland said, "Strike."

William wasn't allowed to throw a curveball, even though he knew how; Coach Mike was unyielding on that rule. Almost eight was way too young to throw a curveball; William had been in the hospital too many times for a boy his age, the last thing he needed to have was arm surgery. Rosie put down two fingers, which meant William's sinker; technically, he shouldn't have been throwing that either, but there was no way he was going to just throw fastballs and have them start hitting.

"Strike two," Mr Sutherland said, and the centerfielder stepped out of the box.

William waited until the kid stepped in again, and then he threw hard and fast chest-high; the kid bailed, and Mr Sutherland said, "Out."

William watched the kid kick his way into the dugout; the second baseman was up next, and William threw four pitches – three strikes and one foul ball, into the dirt – and there were two outs. He watched their first baseman walk into the box, slowly and surely; he was a year older than William and almost as big, broad where William was lean. The kids in the Bears' dugout were yelling "No pitcher, no pitcher" and William felt himself smiling. He looked down the mound into the eyes of the batter and shook off Rosie's call. Since Rosie had only two calls – fastball and sinker – this was ridiculous and he knew it and Rosie knew it; the batter stepped out of the box. William waited until Mr Sutherland told the kid to play ball, and he went into his windup, nodding at the exact same pitch he'd called off a minute before.

It was a fastball just below the knees; the kid had thought high and hard and he swung off balance, trying to protect the strike zone and scowled at William for making him look stupid. William heard Matt tell him to make the kid look dumb again. His next pitch was right down the middle, daring the kid to hit it, and he took it for a called strike. William could hear the Bears' coach yell in frustration. Someone out in the stands – one of the moms, probably – had already taken up the chant of "K, K, K, K" which people had started saying when he pitched. He threw his sinker and struck the first baseman – and the side – out.

Matt and Sammy and Rosie walked him to the dugout and he expected Rosie to say something, but she didn't. He sat down on the bench and draped his jacket over his arm. He was hitting fifth tonight, and it would be a while before it was his turn. The wooziness was back, now that he wasn't concentrating on throwing the ball, and he found it hard to follow what was happening. Somehow Matt was already on base – and the count was three and one to Danny, their centerfielder. William tried to focus on the game. Matt had a pretty big lead at first, and then he moved his shoulder, and the Bears' pitcher wheeled around and threw the ball to the first baseman, who watched it sail over his head into foul territory. Matt took off for second and made it to the base standing up.

Danny hit a high fly ball into short right field, and then Sammy was up, and Rosie was in the on-deck circle, swinging her bat. She glanced over at him, and William shrugged at her and took his jacket off his arm. He stood up and found his bat.

"Is there something wrong, William?" Coach Ben asked.

"No," William said. "They suck, Coach. No problem."

"Okay," Coach Ben said.

Sammy hit a groundball through the gap between first and second, and Matt ran to third. Rosie took her place in the batter's box, and William walked to the on-deck circle, swinging his bat. He bent down and messed with his cleats, watching Rosie go through her ritual – she was very superstitious – in the box. Finally Mr Sutherland said, "Play ball," and Rosie leaned into her stance.

The Bears' pitcher smirked – it was Rosie's cousin Jay-Jay, and she absolutely hated Jay-Jay – and the pitch came floating to her and she simply crunched it into left field. She didn't dignify Jay-Jay with a look as she ran past him, going to first base, and she ended up on second with Matt and Sammy home and the Lynx leading the Bears two to nothing.

William walked into the batter's box, and tapped the bat against his cleats, and swung it a few times, and spit a sunflower seed onto the ground. Then he looked up at Jay-Jay and grinned.

Jay-Jay walked him on four pitches. He took his base, and watched Coach Mike for the sign; Rosie wasn't a fast runner, so it was unlikely that he would be given the sign for a double-steal. Still, he took a very long lead off first base. Maybe he could entice Jay-Jay to make another terrible throw.

The first baseman was a kid named Carl and he said to William,

"You're not going anywhere."

Jay-Jay looked at him, and William came back to tag the base.

"Fat Rosie couldn't run nowhere, not even if a grizzly was chasin' her."

William left the base and stretched his lead a bit. "She may not be able to run fast," he said, "but at least she can catch a ball."

Coach Mike's son was at the plate and he hit a foul ball along the third base line. William started for second, saw that it was foul, and trotted back to first to tag the bag.

"She couldn't catch my dick," Carl said, and William knocked him into the dirt.

It took the coaches from both teams and Mr Sutherland to break apart the pile of bodies, pulling one kid off after another, until at the bottom of the pile William was calmly rubbing Carl's bloody face into the dirt.

"You're both out of the game," Mr Sutherland said, holding the boys apart.

"He started it," Carl complained. "He hit me and knocked me down. You saw it. I didn't do nothin'."

"Carl," Mr Sutherland said. "I know you, and I know William. You said something, and William reacted. Both of you are out of the game."

William looked at his bleeding hand, and tried to think through the cottony feeling that had started when Carl had made the remark about Rosie. "I'm sorry, Mr Sutherland," he said, and to him it sounded as if his voice was very far away. "I'm sorry, Coach Mike."

"You should apologise to Carl," Coach Mike said. "Fighting is not allowed. Ever. Regardless of what Carl said."

William looked at Carl, and then he looked back at Coach Mike. He was used to obeying, whether he wanted to or not, but Carl was standing there smirking, and he didn't know what to do. He said, "Am I supposed to sit in the dugout?"

"You are supposed to go home," Mr Sutherland said.

William said, "You're going to make me go home?" and Coach Mike placed his hand on William's shoulder.

"Is your father at home, William?" he asked.

"I don't know," William said. "He went to Juneau yesterday. I don't know if he's coming back today. Mrs Shugak is staying with me."

"Are you going to apologise to Carl?" Mr Sutherland asked.

William thought about what would happen when he got home. "I'm sorry I hit you, Carl," he said.

"What do you say, Carl?" Mr Sutherland turned to Carl.

"I didn't do nothin'," Carl said. "William hit me for no reason."

"You will apologise for saying what you said, first to William, and then to Rosie, or you will not be playing for the next two weeks."

"I'm sorry," Carl said ungraciously, and Coach Mike said to William, "Let's get your gear."

Coach Mike helped William stow his gear into his sports bag.

"Do you want me to call Mr Shugak to come pick you up?" Coach Mike asked.

"No." William shook his head. "I'll walk home."

"William, there are better ways to defend your friends than fighting," Coach Mike said.

"Yes, sir," William answered. "I'm sorry, Coach Mike. It won't happen again."

"I know," Coach Mike said. "Will you let me know when you get home?"

"Yes, sir," William said.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the dugout. He still felt woozy, even though the cottony feeling was less, and his stomach was queasy. He couldn't remember whether his father was supposed to be home today or tomorrow. Instead of walking through the ballpark to go home, he veered off onto the path into the woods. It was a longer walk this way, but it would take him by Rosie's house, and he could visit Bet and feed her before he went home.

He'd walked about half a kilometre into the bush when his stomach cramped and he puked onto some ferns. He bent over, hands resting on his knees, and heaved most of what he'd eaten onto the ground. He'd splashed some of it on his cleats and on his socks, and he tore off a few fronds and wiped them off as best he could. This early in the summer it wasn't hot, yet he could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. His knuckles hurt where they'd collided with stupid Carl's jaw, and he sucked on them a bit. His mouth tasted awful, of puke and blood, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. The cuts on his butt were still scabs, the bruises still green and yellow – he straightened and turned back onto the path.

He was almost to Rosie's house – in fact, he could hear the dogs howling in their kennels – when he heard a scurrying in the brush beside him, and then he heard what he thought was a cat. People kept cats – in fact, Matt's mother had a cat – but you'd be crazy to let a cat out of the house in the bush. It wouldn't last an hour – not with sled dogs, and lynx, and bear, and wolves, and even foxes, eagles – all of those would see cat and think prey. Matt's mother's cat was kind of nice, even though it was old, and didn't really seem to do much. Still, it was pretty, and its fur was soft, much softer than Bet's, and Bet had a really soft coat for a dog.

He heard the cat again. Maybe it was a kitten. It sounded very young. He put his sports bag down on the ground, and waited. Maybe if he were still, the cat would come out of its hiding place. Ten minutes went by and he didn't hear anything. He figured the cat was probably gone, or maybe he was just making the whole thing up.

He picked up his bag, and saw the cat on the trail just ahead of him. It was the colour of the orange marmalade he'd had once at Mrs Shugak's house and it wasn't much bigger than a kitten. It had four white paws.

"Hey, cat," he said, and it mewed at him.

William forgot about the wooziness and the pain, and the fight that he'd had with Carl; cats were easier to hide than dogs, and if his father wouldn't be home until the morning – he crouched down, and the cat trotted up to him. He let the cat wind its way around his legs, and then slowly he bent down and stroked its fur. He could hear the cat purring, and he picked it up.

"Okay, cat," he said, and he made a sling for it out of his jacket and carried it back to his house. He hadn't forgotten about Bet – of course he hadn't, but he could put the cat in his room, and give it some water and food, and calm it down a bit, and then go back to Rosie's and take care of Bet.

Mrs Shugak was in the laundry room when he walked in the kitchen through the mudroom – of course she hadn't been expecting him to be home for a few more hours – and he crept up the stairs, the cat sort of squished inside his jacket where it was purring away, and he ducked into his room and shut the door.

He took his jacket off and set the cat down on his bed. It was a nice-looking cat, with orangey-red fur and a white belly and those four white paws like snowshoes. Or mittens. The cat rolled around on his bed for a bit, still purring, and then sat up and began to clean itself.

"I'll get you some water and food," he told the cat.

He put his sports gear into his closet, and changed out of his uniform into his jeans and a t-shirt. Then he went downstairs, slowly because the ache was still there, and into the kitchen. He took out a small bowl for water and tried to figure out what he could give a cat to eat.

"William?" Tasya Shugak said, as she came out of the laundry room. "Why are you home from the game so early? Are you hurt?"

William glanced at the blood on his hand, which he'd meant to wash off but had forgotten to.

"What happened?" Mrs Shugak asked.

"I got sent home," he answered. "I'm not hurt. My hand's okay, I'll just wash it off."

He turned the water on and washed the blood off under the tap. "See?" he said. "I'm not hurt, just a little bruised."

"Sit down, William," Mrs Shugak said. "Let me fix you something. What were you going to do with that bowl of water?"

William looked at the bowl on the counter. He didn't want to tell Mrs S about the cat, because she'd make him put it outside, where it was sure to get eaten. Or she'd tell his dad, and he'd make him put it outside, where it was sure to get eaten. Maybe he could just keep it for the night, and then Matt's mom could take it in the morning.

"I was walking home and I found a cat," he said. "It's upstairs. I was going to bring it water and something to eat, but I don't know what cats eat. Well, I mean I do, Mrs Jesperssen's cat eats crunchies, but we don't have any."

"Oh, William," Mrs Shugak said. "You know your father won't let you have a cat. That's why you keep Bet at Rosie's house."

"Maybe he can stay at Matt's," William said. "His mom has a cat. They might take another."

"William," Mrs Shugak said. "You still haven't told me why your home. Go give the cat water, and I'll find it something to eat. Then we'll talk."

"Yes, ma'am," William said, and he grinned.

He walked up the stairs slowly, careful not to spill the water, and opened the door to his room. The cat jumped off his bed, and perted at him, and he placed the water bowl down on the floor by his door. The cat sniffed at it, and then put the tip of its white paw into the water and if cats could look surprised, it did, and shook the water off. William laughed, and sat down on his bed to watch. The cat took an experimental lap of the water, and then proceeded to drink.

"William!" Mrs S called. "Come and eat."

"Okay," he answered. "I'll bring you some food, cat," he promised.

He left his room, making sure that his door clicked shut, and walked back down the stairs into the kitchen. Mrs S had made him breakfast for dinner – something he really liked – French toast with blueberries and some caribou sausage. There was water on the table and he asked,

"Can I have chocolate milk to drink instead?"

"You can drink the water first," Mrs S answered, "but I'll make you chocolate milk."

"Thanks," William said.

He ate the French toast, soaking the blueberries in the maple syrup, and cutting up his sausages carefully. He drank the water, surprised that he was so thirsty. Mrs S didn't say anything until she'd made him his chocolate milk and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down across from him at the wooden kitchen table.

"What happened, William?" she asked.

He took a sip of his milk, and wiped his mustache off with his napkin. "I got into a fight," he said, looking down at his plate. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

"You got into a fight?" Mrs S repeated.

He remembered how last summer Mrs S had had to break up the fights between Dmitri and himself. "With Carl Magnusson," he said. "He plays first base for the Bears."

"Why did you fight him? During the game, you got into a fight?" Mrs S sounded almost as if she didn't believe him.

"It was because I struck him out and made him look dumb," William said. "He is dumb, anyway. He talks like an idiot. I hate him."

"William," Mrs S said. "You need to tell me what happened. And I don't want to hear you calling anyone dumb. Not everyone is as smart as you are, and not everyone has to be. There's plenty of room in this world for people who aren't as smart as you."

William said, "I didn't mean – "

"I know," Mrs S replied. "Just tell me what happened."

"I struck Carl out," William said. "It did make him look dumb. And Matt said so. I guess that made Carl pretty mad."

"I would imagine so," Mrs S said.

"So then Matt got on base, and then Sammy got a line drive, and then Rosie hit a long double. And Matt and Sammy scored, so we were winning, two to zero.. Oh – and Matt got Jay-Jay, who was pitching, to throw a ball to first, which went over Carl's head, so he looked dumb again, and Matt stole second. And then Rosie hit the double," William said, all in a rush.

"Breathe, William," Mrs S said. "Slow down. Finish your supper."

William looked at his food. The French toast looked soggy, and the berries were floating in the syrup. "I'm not hungry anymore," he said. "My stomach hurts."

Mrs S got up and cleared his plate. He watched her take care of the dishes and put things away.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked.

"You haven't finished telling me what happened," she answered. "But I don't like you calling people dumb."

"I won't do it anymore," he said in a small voice. "I promise."

"You wouldn't like it if I called you dumb," Mrs S said.

"No." William's stomach hurt worse.

Mrs S sat down. "Finish your story, William."

"Rosie hit the double, and Matt and Sammy scored. Jay-Jay walked me on four pitches, 'cause he knew I'd hit the ball. Jay-Jay can't pitch to me or Rosie, we always hit him. I was on first base, next to Carl. I took my lead," William explained, "even though I knew I couldn't steal a base, 'cause Rosie was on second, but I thought maybe I could get Jay-Jay to throw at me and mess him up. And Carl said that Rosie was fat, and that she couldn't run fast, so there wasn't any reason why I should be taking a lead. Except there was," William said. "It would get Jay-Jay to throw again, and maybe he'd throw wild, and we could move up. And then I said even if Rosie isn't fast, she can catch a ball."

"Because Carl didn't catch Jay-Jay's throw to him?"

"Yeah." William hung his head. "We always talk smack in a game, Mrs S, you're supposed to," he said. "It's part of the game."

"Then why did you hit Carl?"

"Because he said Rosie couldn't catch his dick," William said. "I punched him out, and he fell down, and then everyone jumped on us, and Mr Sutherland had to break everything up. And me and Carl got sent home."

"Your father," Mrs S said, "is not going to like this one bit."

William started to cry. "Don't tell him," he begged. "Please don't tell him. I won't fight anybody again. I'm sorry. I apologised to Carl, even though he wasn't sorry for what he said."

Mrs S said, kindly, "William, even if I don't tell him, Coach Mike will."

"He'll be so mad at me," William said. "I don't like it when people are mad at me."

"I know," Mrs S said. She stood up and hugged William. "Don't cry, William. Your father won't like that you got in trouble, but I'm sure he'll understand that you were standing up for Rosie."

William let Mrs S hold him, something he rarely did anymore. "I don't like Carl," he said. "He always says stupid stuff about Rosie."

"Some boys are like that, William," Mrs S said. "I'm really glad that you're not." She let him go, and said, "Let's find something for that cat to eat, all right?"

William tried to smile, even though the ache was worse and his stomach still hurt. "Okay," he said. "You'll like him. He's really cute."

Mrs S found a tin of herring, and she helped William cut it up and pick some of the bones out, so that the cat could eat it. William usually liked herring, but the smell made his stomach feel worse. He carried the bowl up the stairs, with Mrs S following him, so that she could see the cat. He opened his door, and the cat jumped off his bed again and meowed at him.

"See?" William said, setting the bowl down next to the cat's water dish. "He's really cute."

"He's very cute," Mrs S agreed. "He's barely more than a kitten. I wonder whose cat he is. He must belong to someone."

"Maybe one of the cheechakos at the lodge?" William suggested.

"You shouldn't say cheechako," Mrs S told him. "It's not very nice."

"Okay," William said. "They probably wouldn't bring their cat anyways. Look, he's eating it."

"Of course he is," Mrs S said. "I know what cats like. Mr S and I used to have a cat ourselves, when my kids were little."

"You did?" William asked. "He's purring. He can stay the night, right? And then I can find him his home in the morning."

"Yes," Mrs S said. "That's a good plan. Why don't you take a bath and get into your pyjamas, and let me look at your hand before you go to bed."

The cat had finished the herring, and wound its way around William's legs again. "Do I have to take a bath?" William asked. "I don't want to leave him alone. He's probably scared."

"All right," Mrs S agreed. "You just get ready for bed, then. I'll take the bowl down. You don't want your room to smell like fish."

William laughed, and his stomach hurt a little bit less. Mrs S took the dish and left, and he undressed and put his pyjamas on. When he went into the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, the cat followed him, and jumped up on the sink and watched him.

"You're a silly cat," William told it.

It followed him back into his bedroom, and jumped up on his bed when he got under the covers. Mrs S came back in, and scratched the cat behind its ears, and gave William a kiss on his forehead.

"Don't stay up all night playing with the cat," she said. "I've found a box, and I'll put some paper in it. Maybe the cat will be able to use that for tonight."

"Oh," William said. "I didn't even think about that."

The cat had settled itself down near his chest, and was cleaning itself. William watched it lick its paw with its pink tongue, and then wash its face. He rubbed the cat's ears and then he pressed his face into the cat's fur.

"I love you, cat," he said. "I don't want to find you somewhere else to stay. I wish you could stay with me."

The cat continued to clean itself, and Mrs S came back in with the makeshift litter box she'd made. "We can only hope for the best," she told William.

"I'll clean it up," William said, "if he makes a mess. I really like him."

"I know," Mrs S said, "but don't get too attached to him, William. I'm sure he belongs to someone."

"I'm going to call him Mittens," William said, "because he's wearing them on his feet."

"Go to sleep, William," Mrs S said, turning off the light.

"Yes, ma'am," William said, and Mrs S shut the door.

"What's this?" his father was saying. "Billy? What is this?"

William opened his eyes to the grey dawn, heard the birds singing, and saw the cat in his father's hands. He sat up, awake.

"I found him, Dad," he said quickly, "last night. Mrs S said I could keep him until we found out who owns him. I was going to ask around today."

"You were, were you?" Kyle Riker said. The cat was purring.

William hadn't realised that cats were dumb.

"We couldn't leave it outside last night," he explained. "It would have gotten eaten."

"Really," Kyle Riker said. He looked at the cat. "It's purring," he said.

William nodded. "He's a nice cat. He's really friendly, Dad."

"Why would you think, Billy," Kyle Riker said, and he smiled at his son, "that I couldn't be trusted with your dog – you know the one you keep at Rosie's house? – but I could be trusted with a cat?"

William's head felt all cottony and his stomach started to hurt. He said, "I didn't know you'd be coming home so early."

"You know," Riker said, "that's what I love about you, Billy. You're so goddamned honest."

William knew his father didn't love him at all, even when he said he did, when he was doing the things that hurt and made his insides ache. Riker let the cat jump onto the bed.

"You know, I got a message from your Coach Mike," he said, sitting down on the edge of William's bed.

The cat rubbed its head against Riker, and then curled itself up next to William. Maybe, William thought, it was dumb because it was still a kitten. If he'd been the cat, he would have been under the bed by now.

"Fighting," Riker said. "Over a girl, was it? Rosie?"

William said, "Carl said something mean, and I hit him. I apologised."

Riker grinned, and William felt the cottony feeling come back. "And to think I thought you were the sort of boy who only liked other boys," Riker said, and he squeezed William's crotch.

"Rosie's my friend, Dad," William said. He tried to sit still as his father touched him.

"And friends are important," Riker said. He still had his hand on William's crotch. "Important enough to get kicked out of the game for. Important enough to beat some kid up for."

William didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. Riker looked at the cat.

"Which is more important, I wonder?" he said. "Rosie, or the cat?"

"What do you mean?" William said, trembling.

"You like the cat," Kyle Riker said, "and you like Rosie. Right?"

"Yes."

"So choose," Riker said. "You can keep one. Rosie, or the cat."

William felt the French toast rising from his stomach to his throat.

"I don't understand," he said, but he did. He did understand. It was the reason Bet was at Rosie's house.

Riker stroked William on his cheek. "You can keep one, Billy," he repeated. "Which one will it be?"

William looked at the ginger cat with the white paws, curled up next to him on the bed. He thought about Rosie, with her big hands, and her funny grin, and her large black eyes that watched him so seriously sometimes, almost as if she were the only person in the world who really knew the kind of hell that William lived in.

"I choose Rosie," William whispered.

"Are you sure, Billy?" Riker asked. "The cat's really cute. It seems to like you."

William didn't know how to explain. How could his father think that girls and cats were the same, even if cats were cute?

"I'm sure," he said. He could feel the ache deep inside him, but he didn't cry.

Riker pet the cat on its head, and the cat purred. He picked the cat up, and before William could say anything at all, he twisted the cat's head, and William heard its neck snap. The cat's bowels released, and the smell enveloped William's bedroom. William felt his stomach clench, and then he was puking French toast all over the bed.

"You'll need to clean this up, Billy," Riker said, laying the dead cat back down on William's bed.

"Yes, sir," William said.

Riker stood up and walked out of his son's bedroom. William's chest was still heaving, and he looked at the cat's glassy eyes, just staring. He looked at the cat's little white paws, at its white tummy and orangey-red tail.

"I'm sorry, Mittens," he said. "I'm sorry."

The cat had purred for his father.

Cats were dumb, and William decided he really hated them.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter Forty-Seven

I strode out of the turbo lift on Deck Nine, into the dark and empty corridor. The lights for the red alert were flashing, but there was no sound at all, just that cottony feeling around my head, stopping up my ears. As I got closer to the captain's quarters I started to run, and then it seemed I was just running, and running, and running, never reaching his quarters at all, but filled with a relentless anxiety that I had to find him, I had to get him, I had to keep him safe. I looked down at my hand and saw I had my phaser out, and I wondered briefly who or what was attacking the ship. Then I was at the captain's quarters, finally, and I overrode the code and burst in, my phaser armed and ready, but his quarters were dark and empty, and I searched through them, room after endless room, looking for the captain, but I couldn't find him, he was gone and I was too late.

"Will. Will."

Someone had grabbed me, and I whirled around; I didn't have time for this; I had to find the captain but his quarters seemed to just be one series of dark, empty rooms after another.

"Let go of me," I said, fighting back, "let go of me, I don't have time for this, I have to find him –"

"Will. Calm down. Who do you have to find?"

"I can't find Jean-Luc – " I said.

"_Mon cher_, I am right here," he said to me, and I could hear his voice close to my ear, and felt his arms wrapped around me, and I felt myself sag in relief against him. "Breathe, Will," he said, "that's it, you can calm yourself down; that's right, just breathe, I'm right here."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, and I could feel myself weeping into his chest, "I never seem to be able to let you sleep, I'm sorry."

He pulled me to him and kissed my hair. "Will," he said.

"The sedative was supposed to make me sleep through the night," I said, and I was still crying, "I don't understand why it doesn't work, and I was looking for you, and I couldn't find you, I couldn't find you – "

"Captain?" Stoch was in the open door, and I could hear Lt Fisk right behind him. "What does he need? Dr Sandoval is on his way."

"I'm not sure," Jean-Luc said. "Will. I am right here, next to you, where I have been all night. It was just a dream, Will. Nothing to be upset about."

"No," I said, and I was struggling against his arms, "you have to let me go, you don't understand, I'm sorry I woke you, but you don't understand, I had to find you because you're not safe –"

"I think," Mr Stoch said, "I had better call Dr McBride."

Dr Sandoval said, "Commander, I'm going to give you the medication that Dr Crusher left for you –"

"No!" I said, "No, I don't want any medication, please, you don't understand –"

"Doctor," Jean-Luc said, but it was the captain who was speaking, "just leave him. Mr Stoch, call Dr McBride. William, if you will stop fighting me, you won't have to have the medication."

"Sir," I said. My chest was heaving and my head was pounding. "My head hurts," I said. "I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," I repeated, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you again—oh God, my head hurts."

"William," he said, pulling me back into his arms, "your head is remembered pain. When you get upset like this, you remember the pain when you hurt your head. They're not the same, the memory of your head hurting and your not being able to find me. Just take a deep breath, and let me hold you. The pain will go away, I promise you. Just breathe."

I breathed. He was right, the pain was lessening.

"Captain," Stoch said, "both Dr McBride and Counsellor Troi are on their way."

"His blood pressure is too high, Captain," Fisk said. "He's going to stroke out."

"No, he's not," Jean-Luc said, "because you're going to calm down, Will. You can do this. You know your breathing exercises. You're going to do them now. You can tell me why you think I'm not safe after Dr McBride arrives. For now, I just want you to breathe."

I said, "I'm trying, Jean-Luc."

"I know, _mon cher_, I know. You're doing fine."

Stoch said, "Captain, if we can get him to sit up, he'll breathe easier."

"Yes," Jean-Luc agreed. "Come, Will. Let's get you up."

I could feel the panic start to rise again and I clutched at him; actions that normally would have mortified me seemed to no longer have that automatic shut-off valve anymore, as if this illness had some sort of emotional all-or-nothing component to it. Instead, my response was to lose control of my breathing and my head to start pounding, and I said,

"I don't think that's going to work, Jean-Luc. Please – just let me stay like this until Dr McBride gets here."

"How about if I sit up, then, Will?" he said. "I'll be able to hold you better."

"Okay," I said. It was hard to talk through the pain in my head.

He sat up, and then pulled me to him, so that my head was resting against his chest, and his arms were wrapped around me.

"Is that better?" he asked, and I could hear the kindness and the concern in his voice.

I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak anymore. At least I had stopped crying.

"Do you think you can try to breathe now?" he asked. "Because you're not, you know."

I let myself breathe, and felt my headache start to recede a bit.

"Why don't you, Commander," Stoch suggested, "close your eyes and see if you can find your safe place."

I nodded. I found myself walking down the path behind my house, down towards the creek, back to where the salmonberry bushes were. I tried to concentrate on the play of the light on the riffles in the creek, tried to listen to the birds.

"That's it, Will," Jean-Luc said. "You're doing much better."

I peered into the pool at the edge of the creek, the one where Dmitri had told me once that he'd fallen in, wondering if I could still see the rainbows that were suspended in the water.

"Lights, thirty percent," Jean-Luc said, and I heard Dr McBride say,

"Did we have another trigger, Captain? Where is he right now?"

Jean-Luc answered, "I'm not sure if this was triggered. He woke up from what seemed to be a nightmare, not a night terror, and had a very difficult time unentangling himself from the dream."

"Will?" Deanna's voice was low and calm, coming from the other side of me, where Stoch had been standing. "Where are you right now, Will?"

"He's in his safe place," Stoch said. "I thought it might help him calm down and start him breathing again."

"Thank you, Mr Stoch," Deanna said, and I felt her rest her hand on my shoulder. "Will, Dr McBride and I are both here now. Why don't you come back into the present?"

I opened my eyes, and found myself squinting at the light.

"Can you sit up now, Will?" Jean-Luc asked.

I nodded, and slipped out of his arms, so that I could sit up, but when I did, the pain was overwhelming, and I was hit with a sudden wave of nausea. I closed my eyes again, fighting the nausea – I could just imagine Jean-Luc's reaction if I puked all over him – and then I felt Dr McBride lay his hand on my arm.

"All right," he said in that tone he used for me. "You keep your eyes closed for a minute, William. I'm going to lower the lights first. Lights, ten percent," he said, and even though my eyes were closed I could feel a lessening of the pressure in my head. "Keep your eyes closed, William," he instructed softly. "You are completely over-stimulated, and we need to calm everything down. Mr Stoch, Deanna, and – it's Lt Fisk, yes? – if you could wait outside for a few moments. Doctor, if you don't mind staying to monitor his blood pressure. I'd like to reduce the stimulus and see if I can't get him under control."

"Of course," Deanna said, and a minute or so later I heard the door close.

"Jean-Luc," McBride said, "I think you should continue to be physically close to him, even though he's sitting up."

I could feel Jean-Luc move closer to me and I started to shake.

"Are you nauseous, William?" McBride asked me.

I nodded.

"Do you need Mr Stoch to take you to the – what do you call it on a ship again?"

"The head," Jean-Luc provided, and despite what was happening, I could hear the familiar wry tone in his voice, and then I felt myself start breathing again.

"No," I whispered. "I think I can manage."

I felt Jean-Luc slide his arm behind me and pull me to him. He said in my ear, "_Mon cher_, your being sick on me will not be the end of the world. Don't worry about it."

I could feel myself crying silently again. I said, "I don't want to do this anymore. I'm too tired for this, Jean-Luc."

"I know," he answered. "But you're tough, Will. We'll get through this."

"Indeed," McBride said, and I felt him briefly rest his hand on my shoulder. "You are a remarkable young man, William. I don't want you to forget that."

"I couldn't keep you safe," I said. "I couldn't keep anything safe."

I heard Dr McBride bring the chair over to the bed, and then I felt him reach for my hand. "I believe, William," he said, "that you have remembered what you couldn't keep safe, and why you know Jean-Luc is not safe; and that this has to do with what we discussed yesterday – and perhaps with what Jean-Luc said during our discussion."

I started to shake again, and I felt Jean-Luc tighten his hold on me. "Will," he said. "You have been able to keep me safe many times. I've always been able to depend on you."

"This is different, though, isn't, William?" McBride asked. "Why don't you tell me about your dream?"

"I was trying to find Jean-Luc," I said. "I was on Deck Nine, and the corridor was dark and empty; the red alert was on but it was as if the power was gone so there was no sound….I kept running down the corridor and it was endless. Then I finally reached the captain's quarters and when I overrode his door, I was too late. His quarters were dark and empty, and he was gone. I kept searching for him, through all the empty rooms, but he was gone."

"How were you feeling, in your dream?"

"Anxious. That cottony feeling was back, around my head, as if nothing were real," I said, "nothing except the anxiety and the knowledge that I was too late."

"And are you too late?" McBride asked, gently.

I felt the pain rise up in my chest and I was hit by yet another bout of nausea.

"Yes," I said. "It's too late. You're not safe, Jean-Luc, and there's nothing I can do."

"And William," Dr McBride said, taking my hand in his, "would you explain to the captain why it's too late and why he's not safe?'

"I can't," I said.

"You must, William. Because none of us are safe, are we?"

I shook my head, and felt the tears start down my face again. "No."

"I don't understand," Jean-Luc said quietly.

"Give him time, Jean-Luc," McBride said. "It's taken him a very long time to reach this point. He has to be here, in this moment, to acknowledge his feelings, feel this pain, and realise the truth of what he's saying. The truth of what he's always known." McBride said, "How is his blood pressure now, Dr Sandoval?"

"It's 180 over 90," Sandoval said. "A stroke waiting to happen."

"Shouldn't he have Beverly's medication then?" Jean-Luc asked, and I could hear the urgency in his voice.

"We are where we need to be right now, in his treatment," Alasdair McBride said. "There is always the calculated risk that the treatment itself will cause more damage. Unfortunately, that is the nature of this disease."

"Will," Jean-Luc said, and he wrapped his other arm around me and let me rest my head against his chest for a moment. "Tell me what I need to know. That's an order, Commander. Tell me."

"I'm afraid," I said, but it was Billy who said it.

"I know, hen," McBride answered, "I know you are, Billy, but you need to let William speak. William needs to tell us what he knows. William needs to tell us why he's been alone all his life, why he's never had another pet since childhood, why he left Deanna on Betazed, why he's never had a relationship with anyone that ever lasted more than a month or two. Why he turned down the _Aries_. Why he turned down the _Melbourne_."

"I chose Rosie," I said, and I could feel that I was soaking Jean-Luc's nightshirt. "He made me choose," and I could see myself in my bedroom, in the weird grey light of the summer dawn, and him sitting beside me, on the edge of the bed he rarely let me sleep in, with the little ginger tabby with the white paws in his arms. "He said I could only have one. One friend. One thing I could love. He made me choose – Rosie, or Mittens. What could I do?" I said. "There was no choice. There's never been a choice. It was all a set-up, just like the _Aries_ – just like the _Melbourne_. How was I ever supposed to explain it to anyone? That I had to leave Betazed, because my father killed a cat in front of my eyes when I chose to protect my friend instead?" I sat up, and I turned to Jean-Luc, and it was hard to keep the anger from my voice. "You said it yourself, yesterday. The actions of a monster, you said. As if you could really know," I said bitterly. "The Borg – Locutus – that was nothing. What they did was evil – but it wasn't what they _were_. I lived with the monster. I know it. I know what it can do. You spoke to it, you gave it the information it wanted – and now it will do to you what it's always done, what it did to my mother and to that poor little cat, and the hundreds of others that must be out there, that have been covered up, because it was patrolling the deep space."

"Oh, Will," Deanna said from the doorway.

"It was never about the _Potemkin_," I said, pulling away from Jean-Luc.

"And so you have made your choice, over and over again, haven't you, William?" McBride said, and he was using his G major tone again. "Choosing to be alone. Choosing to let others think you couldn't make a choice, that you were stuck. Trying to keep everyone safe. It's no wonder you're so tired, William. The responsibility has been overwhelming."

Jean-Luc said, "And you believe it was a mistake, then, Doctor? To have spoken to Kyle Riker?"

"Yes," Dr McBride said. "It was a mistake. He knows that William tried to commit suicide, and that he's still on the _Enterprise_. He knows that William is remembering. Will was safe, as were you – and Deanna – as long as Will couldn't remember. Riker has been waiting for this for a long time. He knew that when Will reached his mother's age it might act as a catalyst for the memories. And," McBride said, gently, looking directly at Jean-Luc, "you told him how you feel about his son."

"But he's just one man," Jean-Luc protested. "I can understand, Will, how you feel – given what you've remembered – the monstrous things he's done – but –"

"And you are forgetting, Jean-Luc, that the Federation has been complicit –and I don't say that lightly – in covering up William's abuse. A man like Kyle Riker, Captain – he doesn't stop. There are probably hundreds of Billy's out there – all of them covered up by the same Federation that employs this man, this so-called minor diplomat."

Jean-Luc was silent. Then he said, "_Mère de Dieu_, Will. What have I done?"

I could feel the nausea return, riding the waves of pain from my head. "I tried to tell you," I said, "I heard you telling Beverly you were going to contact him. I tried to tell you not to. I tried, Jean-Luc, to keep you safe. I'm sorry," I said, starting to cry again. "I didn't want you to know how I felt. I knew I couldn't have this. It's my fault you're not safe. I just wanted," I said, and I covered my face in my hands, "I wanted, just one time, not to be alone anymore."

I felt Deanna place her hand on my back. "You're not alone, Will," she said. "You have everyone on this ship. This time," and I felt her kiss my cheek, "you let us keep you safe."


	48. Interlude: Twelve

Interlude: Twelve

The boy lay quietly in the bed, his face hidden by the blanket, and watched out of one half-open eye as Sir dressed himself and readied himself for the morning. The boy was sore, and stiff, but he didn't dare move. He didn't want to take the chance that Sir would realise he was awake, and decide that he wanted to play some more before he went out. So the boy kept his breathing regular, and he didn't stretch his legs, nor did he try to find a more comfortable position where he wasn't partially laying on the newest set of welts he'd been given. Sir had told him the night before that he'd be up early and out all day; he had a meeting in Nuvia, he'd said; a shuttle would be coming to pick him up. That was when the boy finally understood the danger he was in. Sir was not just one of those men that he'd learned as a little boy to avoid when he saw one coming his way; Sir was not just a client of Behlar's who had a large credit account; Sir was something for the Federation – they were sending a shuttle to him, here in the middle of nowhere – Sir had wealth, and power, and arms. The boy felt a tear trickle out of the corner of his eye. He'd known that Behlar would do just about anything for credits, but it had never occurred to him that he might be sold to someone who would kill him when he was done.

He waited until Sir left the room – so far he'd not been told Sir's name, and he doubted he ever would – and then he rubbed his eyes and tried to find a better position in the bed, one that wouldn't hurt quite as much. Sir had been very restrained, so far – the boy knew, of course, of much worse things that had been done to boys like him – but he was unused to pain, to the constant aching and soreness. He hadn't yet learned to block it out the way he'd heard other boys could.

Sir was whistling, which meant the meeting would go well. The boy – he refused to call himself Billy – was relieved. Sir would want to play when he returned tonight, but there'd be no anger involved. It would hurt, but it would be safe. He heard Sir stand in the doorway, still whistling, a melody the boy had no way of knowing or understanding.

"I'm leaving now, Billy," Sir said. "The shuttle will be here in about two minutes. You don't have to pretend to be asleep anymore. I don't have time for you this morning." And he laughed, a low laugh that raised the hairs on the boy's arms and neck.

"Yes, Sir," the boy said.

Sir said, "We might try something new this evening. You can spend the day thinking about it," and he laughed again and left the room.

The boy heard the door to the cottage open and then shut. Still, he didn't get out of bed. Sir had a way of keeping him off-guard, and he knew Sir was fully capable of returning to the bedroom and instigating some sort of play. The boy waited until he heard the shuttle arrive and then leave before he slipped out of the bed.

At first, the boy didn't know what to do. He hadn't been left alone by Sir for more than half an hour before, and Behlar certainly had never left him alone for an entire day. But that had been in Nuvia, a place where the boy could easily disappear; he was in the middle of nowhere now, on the edge of the sea and the jungle. He knew that Risa had no real dangers that weren't human on it – no wild animals, for example, that would eat you – but the jungle still frightened him, almost as much as Sir did. Besides, Sir had made sure he didn't have shoes. He knew he wouldn't survive long in the jungle without shoes.

He decided he could take a shower – Sir had not forbidden him to do anything – so he went into the bathroom and turned the water on, nice and hot. He looked at himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes and a fading bruise on his cheek. His eyes were dark with starburst flecks in them, his lashes long, his hair dark and somewhat curly at the nape of his neck. His teeth were white and even, his nose a pleasant shape. He didn't understand why he'd been sold to a man like Sir – surely it would have been more profitable to keep a boy as pretty as he was.

"My name is Jindyl," the boy said to his reflection. "Not Billy. Jindyl."

He turned away from the mirror, and stepped into the shower. It was a wonderful shower, just letting the warm water cascade over his aching body, not having to worry about Sir and his flickering moods. He dried himself in a large, fluffy towel and then dressed in the loose trousers and tunic that Sir provided for him. He cleaned up the bathroom efficiently – one thing he was good at, organising and cleaning – and wandered into the kitchen. He was hungry, and he approached the replicator and ordered the foods that Sir had introduced to him – blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, orange juice, scrambled eggs.

He enjoyed his breakfast but was careful to clean up after himself thoroughly. He assumed that Sir was a military man in some way, with the Federation or maybe even Starfleet – he preferred everything "shipshape" and in its place.

"Shipshape," Jindyl said to himself. It was a funny word. "Shipshape."

He decided he could please Sir by making sure that the cottage was shipshape, so he set about thoroughly cleaning the kitchen and organising the drawers and cabinets. He didn't know how to whistle; he didn't really understand music, even though Sir had given him his own padd to play with, which had music on it. He worked quietly and diligently, making a contented hum in the back of his throat that would have sounded curiously atonal had there been anyone there to hear it.

Then he found the fake bottom in the drawer by the sink, and the soft leather portfolio underneath it. His heart stopped momentarily when he saw it. This was part of Sir's power – why else would there be this special place for it? He touched the portfolio, enjoying the smoothness and softness of the leather, and he brought it up to his face, smelling its pungent animal scent and running his tongue briefly over it. He'd never felt something like this before. He didn't know that animals could be used to make things. He opened the portfolio, and was disappointed to find that it just held four discs in it, secured in pockets. He knew what discs were, of course, they held programs that you could watch on a viewscreen, or the weird sounds that Sir listened to that he called music, and the games that Sir had programmed onto his padd for when he needed to be quiet so Sir could work.

Maybe, Jindyl thought, there were games on these discs too. He left the portfolio on the counter and took the discs out, and then carried them into the bedroom where he'd left his padd. He booted the padd up and slid the first disc in and was disappointed again – there was just writing on it, writing and some strange pictures, nothing that he could understand, since he couldn't read and he'd never heard of the possibility of school. He'd been picked up off the street when he was maybe five or six, he had no real idea how old he was, by Behlar, who'd found him running wild – and since that time he'd been employed pleasing men like – or almost like – Sir. He took the disc out and put the second one in. Again, more writing; the same on the third. He was sure that the writing was important – why else would Sir hide it? – but it had no value at all to him. He slid the last disc in and his heart stopped.

Pictures.

It was a minute or so before he thought to breathe again. There were boys in the pictures, boys like him, some of them by themselves, some of them with Sir, some of them with other men. All of them were humanoid but many were not human, not the way Sir was. They were all of them doing the things that Sir liked, or so he thought – until he realised that some of them were dead. Very dead. Jindyl wanted to shut the padd down, throw the disc away, but he was caught by the images he was seeing, caught by the eyes of the boys whose eyes could have been his own eyes. He scrolled through the pictures, pictures of live boys and dead boys, boys who looked happy and boys who looked scared, boys whose eyes were haunted and boys whose eyes were blank. The men looked happy. Sir looked the way he always did, until Jindyl came to the last group of pictures.

These pictures were different from the others. Sir was a much younger man in these pictures; there was a woman in them, who looked happy; and a baby, who looked a little bit like the woman. The place in these pictures was strange, not like any other place he'd ever seen; it was by the ocean but the ocean was a dark blue with white; the beach was not sandy but rocky; there were mountains that were white on top, and tall, dark green trees. Sometimes the white that was in the water and on the mountains was on the ground. There were pictures of the baby – who'd become a boy – and Sir standing in it. There were pictures of the boy and other children; of the boy holding a fish. The boy was pretty – tall and strong-looking, with dark hair curling at his neck and ears and eyes that were the brightest blue Jindyl had ever seen. These pictures made Jindyl ache; it was clear that the boy was Sir's in a way he could never be.

Jindyl scrolled to the last set of pictures and he felt tears fill his eyes. These were pictures of the boy doing what Sir liked best – and the eyes of the boy were very much like the eyes of the dead boys in the other pictures. This boy wasn't dead – but his eyes were.

Jindyl took the disc out, and he shut down the padd. He walked back into the kitchen and carefully put the discs and the portfolio back in its hiding place. He finished what he'd set out to do in the kitchen, organising and cleaning, but it was mindless now. When he was finished he went into the bedroom and climbed back into the bed, burying himself underneath the blanket and then curling himself up into a ball. He'd known, of course, when Sir had pulled the phaser on him that first night, that Sir was a bad man. And after Sir had introduced him to the way he liked to play, he'd known too that his own life might be in danger.

He wondered where the pictures of himself were, with Sir. He wondered if he would be added to the live boy – or the dead boy – collection.

He wondered if the real Billy – the one whose eyes were dead – was still alive.

He stuck his thumb in his mouth and waited for Sir to come home.


	49. Interlude: Thirteen

Interlude: Thirteen

It had taken almost another hour to calm Will down, and get him properly medicated, for his nausea, and his pain, and his insomnia, and his fear – or perhaps terror might be a more appropriate word. In the end, there'd been half of sickbay in their room, as Sandoval had commed Beverly, and finally, he'd felt perhaps a little bit of what Will had been experiencing all along, just completely over-stimulated, and McBride had taken him aside and quietly given him permission to leave the room.

Outside, in sickbay, even the orderlies were busy, and he'd retreated into the head, just to give himself some privacy and a chance to collect his thoughts. His sleep shirt was soaked with Will's tears, and he left the head only long enough to replicate himself a new one, and then he took a brief but very hot water shower. Even though McBride had told him to leave the room he'd seen the look on Will's face as he left, and while part of him had wanted to turn around, to climb back in the bed and just take Will in his arms and hold him until William understood through sheer force of his own will that he was safe, and loved, there was another part of him that had reacted with irritation, and with anger.

Picard left the head and walked into Beverly's office, where he ordered a mug of tea, and he sat at Beverly's desk and sipped it. He knew damned well why he'd chosen to be alone, all of these years, and it was because he didn't want the responsibility, didn't want the dependency, the _clinginess_ of someone else in his life. Robert had once accused him, when he was twelve and Robert fifteen, of being the most selfish being on the planet Earth – that he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it, not before and not after, and with no strings attached. Perhaps he and Robert had constantly been at each other's throats because Robert knew him in a way no one else did, and that knowledge was something he – Picard – couldn't or wouldn't tolerate.

He was a selfish man; he could admit that to himself. He liked things that were simple in line and construct, things that were beautiful in their simplicity, that were aesthetically pleasing, and that didn't have an emotional life. Archaeology, he thought bitterly, was the perfect science for him: things which were long dead could not control you.

And yet here he was, in a relationship with his first officer, something he'd sworn he'd never do, and it was the exact opposite of what he preferred in a relationship – clean, simple, beautiful for a time, and temporary. No clinginess, no over-involvement, no dependency – it was what had intrigued him with Vash. If the object of one's love was supremely self-sufficient, the relationship would never descend into the messy, nor would it ever disturb the privacy of one's own inner world.

"Jean-Luc?" McBride stood in the doorway. "Would you mind terribly if I shared a cup of tea with you?"

Picard took a moment to still himself. "No, of course not, Doctor," he said. "Help yourself."

McBride stepped inside Beverly's office, and closed the door gently. He walked around Beverly's desk, where Picard sat, and ordered an herbal tea from the replicator, then smiled apologetically at Picard. "It's really too late for Earl Grey," he said as he sat in one of the chairs in front of Beverly's desk.

Picard wondered if McBride would be able to sleep. He was sure he wouldn't. "How is he?" he asked.

"Asleep," McBride answered, smiling gently, acknowledging the unspoken thoughts of their own lack of sleep, "finally."

Picard sipped his tea. He said, "And this is what you do for a living?",

and McBride snorted with sudden laughter. "No one told me about your sense of humour, Jean-Luc," he said, "it's been a delightful surprise."

Picard didn't know whether he should be offended at that, so he sipped his tea instead.

"You are overwhelmed," McBride said, "and, perhaps, wishing you were somewhere else."

"You are an empath," Picard responded, "like Deanna."

McBride nodded. "Not as developed as Deanna is, no," he answered. "But there's an ability to sense underneath sometimes. And a knack at seeing truths, perhaps, that others don't want to see."

"A day or so before all this started," Picard said, "I told Will that I had a strong desire to fix things, to see that everything was shipshape, and in order. He laughed, and asked me if I were trying to fix him."

"And every time you think that William is on his way to being fixed," McBride finished, "he has another relapse, and appears to be getting worse, instead of better."

"Yes," Picard said.

"Does this frighten you, Jean-Luc? That we may not be able to fix Will?"

Picard thought about what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it. This man had offered him an outlet for his fears and his frustrations, when they had last met; had promised that he would bring his therapeutic mind to Picard's part in his relationship with Will. He thought about the last time he'd been forced to "talk" to Deanna, how irritated it made him feel, how exposed. He looked inside for those feelings now, and found that they simply were not there. Will had said that he didn't understand it; there was just something about McBride that calmed him. At least in this regard, Picard understood what Will had meant.

"Everything about this whole process frightens and disturbs me," he said. "I can't understand a man like Kyle Riker at all. I've met many dangerous – and even evil – men before, but this….it baffles me. And –"

"Yes?" McBride said.

Picard sighed. "I love him," he said, "I do – but half the time I don't understand what sets him off, or why he behaves and thinks the way he does now, when he never seemed to have any issues at all before – "

"Didn't he?" McBride asked. "There's more than one reprimand, in his file. A court martial, a trial for murder, an accusation of rape, fighting – relieved of duty for insubordination – refusing command – which issues didn't he have, Jean-Luc?"

Picard said, "You are over-canvassing, Doctor."

"Is that a nautical term, Captain?" McBride asked, and then he sighed. "Jean-Luc. You are entitled to feel however it is that you feel. You are the captain – and so you are supposed to be a tower of strength at all times – but, Jean-Luc, you're not the captain in this relationship. And William does not need you to be the captain."

"What does he need, then?" Picard asked. "Because I simply do not know."

"He needs you to be human," McBride said. "He needs you to be who you are, feeling what you currently feel. If you're feeling trapped and irritated, or frustrated, or angry with him – you're entitled to those feelings, and you're entitled, Jean-Luc, to express them. William doesn't understand what's normal in a relationship – for him, because he is stuck, emotionally, at such a young age, where everything is either good or it is bad – he doesn't understand normal, complex, adult emotions. Where you can love someone and be furious with them for not being well. For not being able to see that you have needs too – a decent night's sleep being one of them. Where you can desire a relationship – and yet want to flee it, too, when it's hard. You have been through an emotional wringer, Jean-Luc – acknowledging a new relationship, beginning to explore it, physically and emotionally, and then having to deal with an attempted suicide, heart failure, hysteria, mood swings, flashbacks, night terrors, anorexia – you are entitled, I think, to want to run away. It's all right, Jean-Luc. I understand."

Picard was silent, looking down at his tea. Then he said, "In this – therapeutic – relationship, that I have with you, Doctor –"

McBride smiled. "Yes?"

"I vent, and you give me some sort of validation, is that how it works?"

"If you want it to work that way, yes," McBride answered.

"There are other ways for it to work?"

"Of course," McBride said. "I could, for example, give you a prescription."

Picard felt the edges of his mouth turn up, and he said, "For? Some sort of hypo spray, as with what you give Will?"

"I don't think," McBride replied, grinning, "Jean-Luc, that you're in need of an anti-psychotic medication at this time."

Picard was surprised. "Is that what you're giving him?" he asked. He wasn't terribly familiar with psychotropic medications, but, still, he'd thought Will was receiving medication primarily for his anxiety.

"Jean-Luc," McBride said, and there was absolutely no hint in his voice that he might have explained this information before, "William has the most severe form of this disorder. He is suffering from visual, auditory, and olfactory hallucinations. He has had at least one break with reality that I have witnessed. Yes, he is taking an anti-psychotic medication, along with his other cocktail – anti-anxiety, blood pressure, pain medication, and a sedative."

"_Dieu du Ciel_," Picard breathed. "But it's not helping him."

"It is, Jean-Luc, helping him. He is largely coherent. He mostly understands what's happening around him. He is mostly present. He can function in his adult self for short periods of time." McBride paused, and then he said, quietly, "He is not catatonic. He is not dead."

"Does he know?" Picard asked.

"That he's taking an anti-psychotic? Yes," McBride answered. "He's been on one before. When he was a child, in the behavioural unit. He and I have discussed it. He's not happy about it, but he understands why he's taking it." McBride stood up, and took his cup to the replicator. "You're out of tea, Jean-Luc. Would you like another cup?"

"No," Picard answered. "It's almost, isn't it, time for breakfast. I'll share a cup then, with Beverly, before I go on duty."

McBride said, "McBride tea mix, hot," and took his steaming cup back to where he'd been sitting.

"What would you prescribe for me?" Picard asked curiously.

"Will you take it, if it's offered?" McBride asked. "I am your doctor too, Jean-Luc."

Picard said, surprising himself, "Yes."

"It's called respite care," McBride explained. "Necessary, indeed, for any caregiver. For you, twenty-four hours away from sickbay and away from Will. Don't take the day off, but don't come here for lunch, or to see how he's doing. I don't need you with him this afternoon for his therapy – we won't do memory retrieval today. Don't come after dinner in Ten-Forward. Don't spend tonight with him. Instead, Jean-Luc, when you get off shift, I want you to go to the gym. I understand you fence. That's the perfect exercise for you, today. Then I want you to go the Holodeck. You ride, don't you?" McBride waited a moment, and Picard nodded. "Good. I want you to go riding. Some nature trail, I expect you've got a few interesting programs. Come to dinner with us, and then, Jean-Luc, go to your own quarters, take a bath, read a book, and go to bed."

"But Will – " Picard began.

"Is perfectly capable of making it through one day without you," McBride said. "You are exhausted and overwhelmed. You are at the very tip of beginning to resent Will – his mood swings, his complications, his crying all over your pyjamas."

Picard shifted in his seat, hoping that he wasn't colouring, as McBride had once again demonstrated his uncanny ability to hit the nail squarely on its head.

"He'll feel rejected," Picard said, wishing that he'd accepted the offer of another cup of tea.

McBride nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "he will. And that's an issue he and I can discuss in his therapy session today. It will be good for him to focus on something outside of himself for once."

Picard found himself wanting to agree with McBride, and wondered if that, too, was part of this man's gift. He said, "You're right, of course." He rose, realising that he was still in his sleep shirt, and discovered that he didn't really care. Another part of the McBride effect, he thought. He said, almost as an afterthought, "I found – " and he hesitated, trying to figure out exactly what it was he was trying to say, "I found that I didn't much care for sleeping by myself, while Will was in the ICU."

McBride rose as well, and he said, as he rested his hand on Picard's arm, "Of course you didn't, Jean-Luc. But tonight you'll have respite care, so you can sleep an entire night without interruption, so that you can get up tomorrow and not feel as tired – and as frightened – as you do right now. I don't know who runs this ship at night, Jean-Luc – but I was thinking that one of Will's friends might sit with him tonight. It would give him something to look forward to, and will distract him from the fact that you won't be there."

An image appeared in Picard's mind, and he did his very best not to laugh. Still, the picture of Will weeping all over Worf was something that he'd enjoy for the rest of the day.

"Where to now, Doctor?" Picard asked, opening Beverly's door.

Sickbay had quieted down, was running the noiseless way it did in the hours just before dawn. Dr Sandoval and Lt Fisk were apparently in the other office; Beverly was gone; and clearly Mr Stoch was at his post next to Will.

"I'll go change and then on to my office, Captain," McBride said, as he disposed of his cup and followed Picard out of Beverly's office. "And you?"

It was a little less than two hours towards the end of alpha shift, and Picard had no desire to start his day quite this early. "I'll stay with Will," he said, "until shift change. Then I will do exactly as you suggested."

"Good," McBride said. "I will see you at dinner, then. Enjoy your time off, Jean-Luc."

Picard nodded, still feeling mildly silly standing in the middle of sickbay in his pyjamas, and he walked quietly to Will's room, and pushed open the door. Stoch acknowledged him immediately.

"I'll stay with him now," he told Stoch in a low voice, and Stoch answered, "Sir," and left the room, pulling the door shut.

Will was mostly on his bed, or at least his head was on Picard's pillow. Picard slipped into the bed and nudged Will until he moved a bit. He lay down and rearranged the blanket on Will, and then he simply rested, his eyes closed, listening to Will breathe.

"I thought maybe you'd gone back to your quarters," Will said. "I'm sorry about your shirt."

"It was easily taken care of," Picard answered. "I thought you were supposed to be asleep."

"You thought I was knocked out, you mean," Will said, and he gave a ghost of a grin.

"That too," Picard admitted, and he brushed Will's hair out of his eyes.

Will exhaled, which might have been a small sigh, and Picard took him into his arms and kissed his head. Will wrapped his arms around Picard in a tight hug, and then he said, "So you aren't leaving me, then?"

"I was talking to Dr McBride," Picard replied.

"Did he talk you out of it, or into it?" Will asked.

Picard said, "Now who is the one who is incorrigible?"

Will was silent, and then he said, "Did it help? Talking to McBride, I mean."

"Yes, Will," Picard answered, "it helped."

"So you're staying, then?"

"Where else would I go, William? It's my ship," Picard said, and when Will looked up at him, he was grinning.

"So you have to stay," he said, and there was that mischievous glint in his eyes.

He looked, Picard thought, thoroughly pleased with himself. Picard pulled Will to him, and he said softly, in Will's ear, "You'll have to do more than this, Mr Riker, if you want to run me out of this job," and he cupped Will's face, and kissed him, hard. He pulled back and said, "Now be quiet and go back to sleep, Number One. That is a direct order."

"Aye, sir," Will said. He was quiet for a moment, and then he added, "I didn't really think you would leave."

Picard sighed, and he said, "I didn't really think so, either."

"I'll sleep now," Will said.

"Yes," Picard answered, closing his eyes again. "It's all right, Will. I'm right here."


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter Fifty

William knew he shouldn't have gone to judo, because he still wasn't feeling well, and because he would find that he was crying and he didn't know why. Twice Mrs Shugak had asked him what was wrong and he hadn't been able to answer. The second time she'd taken his temperature and told him she would make an appointment for him to see the doctor. But Mrs Shugak would be leaving early, because his father was coming home after having a short meeting in Valdez, and he wouldn't be able to explain to his father why he wasn't at judo either.

Usually he walked over to Matt's cabin, and then he and Matt walked over to Rosie's, and they got the dogs and walked on to the school. But he didn't feel like walking, because he still hurt inside, and he didn't want to see Rosie at all.

"Are you sure you should be going to judo?" Mrs S asked, concerned.

"I promised Henry I'd help with the little ones," William said.

"You don't look well at all, even if you don't have a fever," Mrs S remarked. "I'll call Marty. He can drive you. And I'm calling the doctor."

William hated the doctor. The doctor was stupid. He asked William if his head still hurt, and if he heard voices. The last time the doctor had asked if he'd heard voices, he'd said, "I'm hearing you, aren't I?" Mr Shugak had turned away, as if he were laughing, but the doctor had gotten mad. William usually hated it when people were mad at him – but he didn't care whether he made the doctor mad at all. The doctor gave him medication that made the cottony feeling worse, even when he wasn't hearing voices, and so William had learned how to hide the pills in his mouth, and later he would spit them out.

"Okay," William agreed.

Mrs S looked at William sharply. "Now I am calling the doctor," she said. It wasn't like William to give in so quickly on being driven. The last time she'd told him he couldn't walk somewhere, and would have to wait until someone could drive him, he'd erupted into a rage that had lasted several hours, until the threat of calling his father ended it.

William didn't say anything, because he didn't care. She could call the doctor. He would just spit the medication out. He sat quietly on the sofa and waited for Mr S to come for him. He could hear Mrs S talking to someone on the communicator in the kitchen. When she came into the living room, she said, "Does your head hurt, William?" and he just rolled his eyes.

"I'm not hearing voices either," he said, and then he paused, "except yours."

Mrs S said, "Don't be smart, William."

Usually he would apologise, because he just wanted there to be no trouble, but he didn't feel like apologising either. He thought about it for a moment, and then he realised what he felt like was kicking something. Maybe going to judo would be a good thing.

"William," Mrs S said.

He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, but he wasn't. He wished everyone would just leave him alone. He heard the air car in the drive, and he stood up, and went to the door.

"Have a good time, William," Mrs S said. She didn't sound mad anymore.

"Yes, ma'am," William answered.

"If you don't feel well, have Henry call me," she added. "William?"

"Yes, ma'am." He opened the door and walked outside.

It was after supper, but the sun was still high in the sky, because it wouldn't really set at all, and there was a light wind blowing off the sea, which he could almost smell. He got into the car – Mr S let him ride in the front seat, because William didn't fidget anymore – and closed his eyes.

"Are you not feeling well, William?" Mr S asked as he pulled out.

William wanted to scream. "I'm okay," he said.

"Your head doesn't hurt?"

William was sure he was going to start screaming. "No, sir," he answered. "My head doesn't hurt."

"Do you have baseball practise tonight?"

William sighed. "I had it this afternoon," he said. "I _always_ have baseball practise in the afternoon."

"You do, don't you?" Mr S was impossible to make angry. Sometimes he would forget really dumb things – like the fact that William had baseball practise in between his games every other afternoon – but that didn't seem to bother him either. Mrs S said that he always had his head in the clouds, but she didn't say it like it was a bad thing.

William wondered how he could be more like Mr S. Right now he was feeling angry, and like before, when he'd been crying, he had no idea why. Maybe it was just because Mrs S had called the doctor.

Mr S never dropped him off anywhere anymore. William got out of the air car, and he had to wait for Mr S to do whatever it took him so long to do before he got out of the car, and then Mr S would walk him inside wherever they were going. William knew why Mr S did this – Rosie had told him that Mr S cried when they'd found him in the snow – but it made him mad just the same. He wouldn't ever do that again, because it didn't work. Instead of being turned into stone he'd ended up in the hospital with a head that always hurt and a reputation for hearing voices, even when he never had.

He sighed again, and he let Mr S take his hand – and he was almost eight – eight! And he had to hold someone's hand – and they walked into the gym, where Henry was finishing setting up for judo practise. William tugged his hand away, before anyone saw, and mumbled a goodbye to Mr S, and walked over to help Henry.

Mr S was right behind him. "Can I see you for a moment, Henry?"

William said, "I'm fine."

"Of course," Henry answered.

"I said I'm fine!" William repeated.

Henry looked down at William. "Why don't you finish laying the mats then," he said, "if you're fine?"

This, William thought, was not going to be a good day. It was when he knew he shouldn't have gone to judo practise.

"Yes, sir," William said.

He watched Mr S and Henry walk away, and he took the remaining mats and sort of threw them onto the floor, and then kicked them into place. Sammy came over – he'd joined judo practise, too, along with Danny and Jesse – and said,

"I guess Carl better not show up."

William finished kicking the last mat into place and said, "Why?"

Sammy grinned. "'Cause you'll probably beat him up again."

William found himself grinning back. "I did beat him up, didn't I?" he said. He found that he liked that idea.

"I heard," Sammy said, "that he lost a tooth, because you mashed his face into the dirt."

"Really?" William asked.

Sammy nodded. "I don't think he'll be saying stupid shit about Rosie anymore."

William didn't want to think about Rosie. He saw Henry look over towards him, and he felt himself getting all mad again. "Come on," he said. "I have to get the little kids stretching."

"Okay." Sammy was fairly used to this William being moody. The old William hadn't been, but that was a long time ago.

William corralled the little kids, Jake and Lucy and Josie and Jesse, who even though he was on William's team again this year, still qualified in William's mind as a little kid, and he got them on their mats, and made sure their shoes were stowed, and ran them through the stretching exercises that Henry had taught him. The other kids were now showing up, coming into the gym in dribs and drabs, Danny and Dmitri and Dmitri's cousins Michael and Niall and Maya and then finally Rosie and Matt.

Henry walked over and watched William as he helped the little ones with their stretching. He rested his hand on William's shoulder and felt the child go rigid beneath him.

"Your Uncle Marty says you aren't feeling well," Henry said. He kept his hand on William's shoulder, hoping it would reassure the boy, even if he didn't seem to like it.

"He's not my Uncle Marty," William said, shrugging out from underneath Henry's hand.

"I'll have Dmitri work with the little ones tonight," Henry said. "Do you feel like practising, Will, or would you just like to watch?"

"Am I doing something wrong?" William asked. He felt as if he were going to cry again.

"Of course not," Henry said. "I'm just worried, because Uncle Marty said you're coming down with something."

William glanced over at his friends, all of whom had gotten themselves ready, and were doing their stretches. Rosie saw him look at her, and she gave him her usual Rosie-grin, the one that was goofy and serious at the same time. William looked down at the floor and blinked very hard. He was not going to start crying here.

"I'm not coming down with something," he said. "I wish everyone would just leave me alone."

Henry said, "Why don't you come talk to me for a minute, Will."

"I don't have anything to say," William said, sullenly. The threat of tears was vanishing, to be replaced by the cottony feeling and a dull sort of ache that was settling in his stomach.

"Come on, Will," Henry said, and he let his hand fall on William's shoulder again. He placed his other hand on the boy's shoulder as well, and began to guide him towards the benches against the wall. "It's all right," he said in a soothing tone. "You can still be upset about what happened yesterday. You can talk to me about it."

For a moment, William was still. How did Henry know about yesterday? He could see the filmy staring eyes of Mittens, lying on his bed, could smell the stench of puke and shit, could hear his father saying, "You'll need to clean this up, Billy." It was as if it were happening all over again. Wrapping the cat up in the sheet. Taking it outside. Digging a grave, while his father watched him, a mug of coffee in his hand. Stripping his bed. Changing his clothes. What was there to talk about? The cat was dead, killed by his father. Rosie was still alive – but for how long?

"Will?" Henry said. "I think we should go in my office and talk about what's going on."

William exploded, and it caught Henry off-guard. He shoved himself backwards, into Henry, so that Henry missed a step, and then he wheeled around and launched himself at him, his arms and legs flailing and his hands balled into fists. Silence descended upon the gym, as the children watched in horror as William attacked Henry, pushing him backwards, pounding against his middle and chest. At first William was shouting – it sounded as if he were telling Henry not to touch him – but then it was just mindless screaming as William pummeled Henry with his fists. Henry reacted instinctively, from his years of training in the 'Fleet, and moved forward into William, checking him, and then Henry wrapped his arms around William, spinning him around, crossing his arms against his chest and then holding him there, letting William struggle against him, his voice hoarse from screaming and his face wet with tears.

Henry said, "Dmitri, go get your grandfather, he's outside. Matt and Rosie, gather up the little ones and sit them on the bench."

Dmitri nodded, his eyes wide, and took off running. Rosie calmly led Matt and together they got all the kids, even the big ones, to sit on the gym benches against the wall. Rosie walked towards Henry, who was still holding William.

"Rosie, stay with Matt," Henry said.

William saw Rosie coming and screamed, "Get away from me! Get away from me! I hate you! I hate you, Rosie!" and then he collapsed into sobs, his body shaking.

Martin Shugak ran in, followed by Dmitri, and immediately calmed himself down – he'd dealt with William's rages before. He walked up to Henry and said, "I'll take him. He'll cry himself to sleep now. I've got his medication in the car."

"Are you sure, Marty?" Henry asked.

"Yes," Mr Shugak replied. "William. Henry's going to let you go. Come on to me."

William felt Henry loosen his hold, and he sank to the floor. "Come here, William," Martin Shugak said quietly, and he gathered William in his arms and picked him up. He turned to Rosie and said, "He didn't mean it, Rosie. He'll be all right tomorrow."

Rosie nodded, but she didn't say anything. William didn't look at her; he just turned his face into Mr S's shirt.

"I didn't want him to touch me," William said. "It hurts."

"I know," Mr S said. "I'll take you home."

William started to cry again. "No," he whimpered. "I don't want to go home. I don't want to."

Mr S carried William to the air car, and Henry followed. "It's all right, William," Mr S said, setting William down on the back seat. "Mrs S is still there. We'll get you into bed."

Henry said, "Martin, you have to do something."

Mr S stood there, his hand resting on the car door, and he said, "What would you like me to do? No court is going to take the boy away from his father."

"But the man is hurting him," Henry protested. "Systematically hurting him."

"There's no evidence," Martin Shugak said. "And when there is evidence, it disappears." He bent down to William, who had fallen asleep, and stroked his hair. "He still allows us to be in William's life. It's the best that we can hope for. We try to do what we can. He's leaving again in a few weeks."

"I'm taking this to the tribal council," Henry said. "The boy is her son. He belongs to the tribe. There are laws in place. Someone has to do something."

Mr S shut the door. "The tribe can't fight the Federation, Henry," he said. "No one can. Just leave it be."

Henry said nothing, and Martin Shugak got into the air car and drove away. Neither one of them saw Rosie standing in the doorway of the gym, watching.


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter Fifty-One

When I woke again, Jean-Luc was already gone, and da Costa was standing beside me, saying something about my schedule and that Guinan had already left my breakfast. I sat up, slowly, because I remembered that my head had been hurting, but there didn't seem to be any vestigial pain. My ribs were sore a bit, and I must have been sleeping on my arm again, because it was tight. Even though the medication they'd given me hadn't knocked me out completely – I'd been mostly awake when Jean-Luc had come back to bed – I still felt groggy and disoriented.

"Let me get you to the shower," da Costa was saying to me. "You can have your breakfast afterwards. It's a cold breakfast, this morning, so it won't matter as much. You'll feel better after a shower, sir."

"I don't think I want to get up," I said, lying back down. "I'm really tired."

Da Costa said, and I heard a hint of steel in his voice – almost as if he'd been channeling Jean-Luc –"Everyone is tired, sir. We still do what we have to do."

Well. That put me in my place. "All right," I said. "I'll get up. But you're going to have to help me. I feel a little woozy."

"You don't need my help to get up, sir," da Costa said. "Your clothes and linens are already in the head."

I looked at him. His face was wearing the same exact neutral expression Jean-Luc had when he was supremely pissed off. "You've been taking lessons from the Captain?" I asked. "He's giving tutorials to the junior staff, now?" I sat up, and swung my legs over the side of the bed, and took a deep breath to control the wooziness. "What did I do to piss you off?" I asked. "You weren't even here last night."

"Sir," da Costa said.

It was going to be a long day.

I was dressed and showered, and was back in my room, looking at what I'd said I'd eat for breakfast. There was a cup of coffee – decaffeinated, unfortunately – and a bowel of yoghurt, fruit, and granola, and some sort of a muffin, I wasn't sure what kind. The problem, of course, with ordering your breakfast a day or two days ahead of time, is that there's no guarantee that will be what you want to eat when you get it. There was nothing wrong with it. But my stomach kept remembering the nausea of last night, and so I was more or less moving the spoon around, rather than eating anything. I'd taken a couple sips of water, and a couple sips of the coffee, at least. I'd glanced at my padd, and saw I wasn't scheduled to receive fluids this morning, and I knew – I knew – that meant that it was important for me to finish the water and eat some of what was there.

"Good morning, Will," Deanna said as she entered. "How are you feeling this morning?"

I glanced up at her. Despite her obvious attempt to be cheery, she looked exhausted. She had dark circles under her eyes which she had valiantly attempted to hide, and I could see the strain around her mouth.

"I'm okay," I said. Shit. Six weeks of this was going to do us all in. "Are you all right?"

She smiled. "Of course," she said.

"You're not a very good liar, you know." I managed, somehow, to take another bite of the yoghurt.

"That looks good, Will," she said, ignoring me. She pulled Jean-Luc's chair over and sat down.

"Yeah?" I answered. "You can have some, if you want."

She didn't rise to the bait. "I've had my breakfast, thanks," she said. "It looks like you could use a warm-up on your coffee, though. I'm going to get some tea, so can I bring you a refill?"

"Sure," I said. "It's decaf, though."

"I'm positive, Will," she said, "that it tastes the same."

"You," I replied, "are not a coffee drinker. It doesn't."

Once again she ignored me. "Three creams, right?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

I watched her leave. "I guess," I said, "I'm on everyone's bad list this morning."

Da Costa said nothing, and Deanna returned with two mugs. "Here you go, Will," she said, handing me the coffee. "I thought we'd work on some visualisation this morning."

I looked at the coffee, but I didn't drink it. "Of what?" I asked.

"Will." She set her mug on the night table and sat back down. "I know you're tired this morning, so let's start with just a relaxation exercise, okay?"

I sighed, and pushed my breakfast away. "Maybe, Mr da Costa," I said, "you can dispose of this for me?"

"You're not going to eat anymore, Will?" Deanna asked.

I shrugged and forced myself to take a sip of the coffee. "My stomach's still bothering me," I said.

Da Costa took my tray, and said, "I'll let Dr Crusher know."

"Let's work on relaxation, then. Maybe you'll feel a little better," Deanna said.

I looked at her, trying to figure out if she was patronising me. "Okay," I said.

She took me through the series of breathing exercises, and then we went through a basic relaxation exercise, the one she usually did, where she was placing me in my body and having me relax each group of muscles.

"Good," she said, using her "therapist's" voice. "You're doing fine, Will. Let's talk a little bit, about what I'd like you to do next."

I opened my eyes. The door was open about halfway and I could see da Costa speaking to Beverly.

"Will," Deanna said. "I'd like you to pay attention, please."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "I think," I said, "that Mr da Costa is pissed off at me this morning."

"Will," Deanna repeated. She stood up, and closed the door. "Now do I have your attention?"

"Yeah," I said. But he was telling Beverly I wasn't eating. I sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"We've worked on your safe space," Deanna said, "and you've used it quite effectively. What I'd like you to do is to create a safe space for yourself on this ship – somewhere you can go, when you're feeling unsafe, or when you're feeling anxious about one of us. I'd like you to take a few minutes and think about places where you feel safe here, places you associate with good things, with being happy, with being relaxed. Can you do that for me now?"

"You mean, like my quarters?" I asked.

"Do you feel safe in your quarters?" she replied. "I want you to think of a few places, Will."

"Okay," I said. It didn't really make much sense to me. The ship was either safe – when we were doing routine missions – or unsafe, when we were being attacked or the ones doing the attacking. If we were in the latter, there was no place on the ship that was particularly safe – and my place was on the battle bridge. When it was the former, it could be anywhere – my quarters, the observation lounge, Ten Forward, one of the practise rooms, the Arboretum, the holodecks….

Oh. Well, the holodecks were out. And maybe my quarters were too, because I'd tried to kill myself there. Certainly there were times when I didn't feel safe here, in sickbay – last night being a prime example of that. Deanna was quiet, working on her padd, giving me space to think. Maybe Jean-Luc's quarters – the Arboretum – the observation lounge.

"Okay," I said again. "I've picked a couple places."

"Good. Now I'd like you to choose one, and we're going to work on visualising it, each piece of it until it becomes whole in your mind. Just go over it, Will, making sure you visit every part of it."

I thought about the Arboretum, opening the doors and following the different paths, the trees, the plants, the pond, settling my mind's eye on the benches, the different stone structures, the light, the smells.

"Now I want you to add a layer of protection to it," Deanna said. "Think about what you could wrap around it, to keep it safe, to make sure that there's no one there when you want to use it, to make sure that no one can come in except you, or someone safe that you might want to let in at some time."

I remembered Dr McBride's polymer wall, see-through but protective, and I wrapped that around the Arboretum.

"Now I want you to find a comfortable place," Deanna instructed, "and I want you to lie down, and just concentrate on your breathing."

I wandered back over to the pond, and lay down on the small grassy slope.

"That's right, Will, just breathe. Good. Strong, deep breaths. This is the place you can go to on this ship, Will. It's right here, whenever you need it. You don't need anyone's permission to go here. And no one will ever be in here without your permission. You are completely safe and relaxed here. There's nothing here to frighten you, or to worry you. Just enjoy feeling calm and relaxed."

She talked me through relaxing my muscles again, and concentrating on my breathing.

"You're doing fine, Will," Deanna said. "Now I want you to check everything in your safe space, making sure that it's exactly the way you need it." She paused, giving me time to stand up and look around me, remembering the Arboretum with its polymer wall in my mind. "Have you got it memorised now?"

"Yes," I said.

"Now leave your safe space, and come back to the present with me."

I opened my eyes, adjusting to the light. I yawned.

Deanna smiled. "I know, Will," she said. "You'll be able to rest in the hyperbaric chamber."

"I'll need it after PT," I said, standing up and stretching.

"You aren't going to drink your coffee?" Deanna asked.

I took a few more sips. There was a knock on the door, and Beverly entered.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," she said, "but I'd like to speak to the Commander for a moment."

"It's no problem, Beverly," Deanna said, rising. "We're finished. He's ready for Mr da Costa." She turned to me. "I'll see you this afternoon, Will," she reminded me. "Fourteen hundred hours, in my office."

"Okay," I said. I glanced at my padd, and saw that I'd been scheduled for my first CBT session with Deanna at that time. Something about what she'd gone over with me yesterday, affect management and goal setting. Whatever.

Deanna left, pulling the door, and then I was alone with Beverly, who also seemed to be pissed off with me.

"I drank most of my coffee," I said, "and half the water."

"Mr da Costa tells me your stomach still hurts," Beverly said, ignoring me, "which is why you didn't eat." She glanced at the water and coffee on my night table. "You're not scheduled for fluid replacement until tomorrow."

"I know," I said. "The water makes me want to throw up."

"And yet," Beverly said, "I could count on one hand the actual number of times you have, Commander."

"But – " I sat down. There wasn't really anything I could say. Beverly was determined to be angry with me, and there didn't seem to be much I could do about it.

"You are," she said, "scheduled for a protein shake after rehab. You need to drink it. And you need to finish the water, or you won't be going to rehab, you'll be going back into the biobed. Do you understand me, Commander?"

"Sir," I said.

"Non-compliance, Mr Riker," Beverly said, "will not be tolerated. Do you understand?"

"Aye, sir," I said, "but – "

"There is nothing wrong with your stomach, Commander. Your pain is somatic. Drink the water, now, or a report on your continued non-compliance will be filed to Dr McBride and the Captain."

"I don't even understand what that means," I said. I picked up the cup of water. My head was starting to hurt again.

"Bullshit," Beverly said. "You know perfectly well what it means." She turned to da Costa, who'd just entered the room, and said, "He's not going anywhere until he drinks the water."

"Aye, sir," da Costa said, and Beverly left.

I looked at the water, which was just sitting there. "My head hurts," I said, "but I suppose that's somatic, too." I drank the water, forcing myself to swallow it, feeling it land in my stomach like liquid rock. I tried to quell the rise of nausea.

"Let me walk you to rehab, Commander," da Costa said.

Today rehab was slow-going and hard work. I was tired, my head was still hurting, and I wasn't able to retain my focus that well on what Jai was trying to get me to do. It wasn't that I couldn't do it – I could pedal the stationary bike and go up and down the stairs, but it was hard to remember how many sets and how many times he wanted me to do things, and I was having issues with my balance.

Finally Jai cut it short, and he sat me down to cool off. Da Costa brought over the infamous protein shake, and I sighed as I took it.

"Couldn't I drink this after the hyperbaric chamber?" I asked. "The thought of just laying there with this in my gut…." I trailed off.

"My orders," da Costa said, "were to watch you drink the shake."

Jai wandered over.

"What's the matter, Will?" he asked.

"Commander Riker," da Costa said tersely, "is having issues with non-compliance where food and drink are concerned."

"I thought," Jai said to me, "that Guinan was working with you on that, Will."

"She is," I answered. I took a few sips of the shake and felt my stomach clench. "Sometimes I'm okay. Last night I didn't have a problem with dinner at all. This morning all I have to do is look at something and my stomach hurts."

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," Jai said. "It's pain you're talking about? Or nausea? Or both?"

"Both," I said. "Pain first, then nausea."

"Let me do a little research into this, Mr da Costa," Jai said. "I can't believe this is an issue of non-compliance. I know you've been struggling to maintain the program because of your health issues, Will, but I was under the impression you were onboard."

I said, "I'm trying to be onboard."

"Commander Riker is used to having his own way," da Costa said. "He doesn't much care for being told no. The issues are complex, Lieutenant."

"I am your superior officer, Mr da Costa," I said angrily. "I don't know that I appreciate your speaking about me in this way. Used to my own way. What the hell does that mean? Because if it means I'm used to running this ship, you're damned right I am. It's my job, and I paid my dues to be here to do it."

"And I am speaking as your therapist, Commander," da Costa replied steadily. "You may be able to manipulate Lt Patel, but you'll have to try harder than this to manipulate me. You still have to drink the shake."

"Nevertheless, Mr da Costa," Jai said, calmly, "it won't hurt for me to do a little research from my end into this. There may be something that I can do from the physical therapy standpoint to help alleviate some of his symptoms, whether they're physical or somatic. That's all I meant." He looked at me. "And Mr da Costa is right, Will. You need to drink the shake. You're not going to get better if you continue to drop weight the way you have. After all," he said, and he smiled at me, "I've got you on my schedule for a little practise two nights from now, and I'd like you to be well enough to be there. We're having some issues with the latest set, and you're the only one who can help us."

"I'm being allowed to rehearse again?" I asked. I took another sip of the shake.

"You've got recreation scheduled every evening," Jai said. "The night after tomorrow you're scheduled back with us."

"I don't know that I'm in shape enough to play anything," I said.

"We could sure use you as our bandleader, though," Jai said. "And you've finished the drink, Will. Redirection and distraction sometimes work, Mr da Costa."

Jai smiled and put his hand on da Costa's arm, to mitigate what he was saying, and I looked, surprised, at the cup. He was right, I had finished it. I handed the cup to Jai and stood up.

"I'm looking forward to that," I said. "Come on, Mr da Costa. You've still got to walk me to the hyperbaric chamber."

The session in the hyperbaric chamber was actually a welcome relief from accompanying a seemingly surly Mr da Costa to Deck Eight. He was too busy programming the chamber to follow me into the head and the dressing room, so the med tech, Joona Poijula stayed with me while I changed into the loose pyjamas that had been left for me.

"Do you want the same music program, Commander?" da Costa asked.

"Please," I said.

I entered the chamber to the opening of the Piano Sonata 11 in A major and it seemed as if it were only seconds later that da Costa was waking me.

"Back to Deck Twelve?" I asked.

"Aye, sir," da Costa replied. "PT for your arms, sir."

"I can understand," I said as we walked down the empty corridor to the turbo lift, "why Dr McBride programmed my lunch and my nap."

Da Costa grinned, suddenly. "I'll be happy to read you that story, sir," he said.

I guessed all was right in the universe again.

Guinan was waiting for me in my room when we returned from PT. My arms were sore but in a good way, and the sleep in the hyperbaric chamber seemed to have done me some good, because I was able to focus more on what Jai was asking me to do, even though PT for my arms and wrists was more complex than the cardio rehab. I was able to remember his instructions, for example, and I was able to keep up with the sets and numbers better. Overall, I was feeling a little bit pleased that the day, which had promised to be long and tedious, wasn't going to be that bad.

"Hey, Guinan," I said as I walked into my room.

Guinan smiled. "Hey yourself," she replied. "I've brought your lunch. And we need to talk about your supper and breakfast tomorrow."

"Okay," I said.

I'd forgotten (again) what I'd ordered, so it was a pleasant surprise to see that I'd ordered a simple cheese omelet. She'd given me mint tea to drink with it, and a version of a biscuit that she'd told me her grandmother used to make.

"You had some trouble this morning," Guinan said.

"I had a bad night," I answered.

"You seem to keep having those," she remarked. "I'm tempted to give you warm milk for your bedtime."

"Please don't," I said. "I don't think I could face milk, warm or otherwise."

"You have it in your coffee," Guinan said.

"That's different." Her omelet was fluffy and the right temperature, and I found I was actually enjoying it.

"So any suggestions for tonight?" she asked.

I shrugged. "The problem is," I said, "that because, as I've so recently been reminded, my stomach symptoms are _somatic_ –" and I didn't glance at da Costa, who was standing in his usual post –"I don't seem to have any conscious awareness of them – and of course they don't medically exist, so…."

Guinan didn't say anything for a moment. "It seems to me," she said, "that when we've had success – no triggers and you ate most of your meal, it was small and light. So that should be the way to go."

"I guess," I said. "I seem to be able to eat vegetables okay."

"Maybe a light vegetable soup for tonight, then?" she asked. "That shouldn't bother your tummy, not if I serve it with those biscuits you seem to like."

I rolled my eyes at her. "Even though I have been accused of acting as if I'm four," I said, "I'm not."

She grinned. "We'll try that, then," she said. "No yoghurt for breakfast tomorrow. Any other ideas? Do you eat oatmeal?"

"Yeah," I said, "if it's got raisins and cinnamon."

"So we'll try that," she said, standing. "And I'll continue to give you your mint tea, Will. Mint –particularly peppermint – is very good for upset tummies."

"Guinan – " I said.

"I'm going, Will. You don't have to throw anything." She grinned at me again, and walked out the door.

I finished most of my lunch, and da Costa escorted me to the head so I could wash up.

"Into bed, Commander," he said.

"I'm not really sleepy," I said as I pulled off my shoes.

"I thought you said you were tired," da Costa reminded me.

"I am," I said. "I'm just not sleepy." I got into the bed and slid underneath the covers. "Where's the captain?" I asked. "He usually shows up around now."

"Perhaps he's busy," da Costa said.

I was not going to be irritated. "Maybe I could play one of Deanna's games," I said. "They're kind of mind-numbing."

"You could practise your visualisation from this morning," da Costa suggested. "Or I could read you a story."

"Oh, shut up, da Costa," I said. "I'll just close my eyes."

I fell asleep.

I didn't remember dreaming, when I fell asleep, but I woke on Jean-Luc's side of the bed, realising that I'd expected him to be there, and he wasn't. I sat up and da Costa said,

"I was just about to wake you, sir. You have your session with Counsellor Troi in fifteen minutes."

"The captain never came by?" I said.

"No, sir," da Costa replied. "You have time to take another shower if you want to, sir."

I realised that I was drenched with sweat. "Do I have a change of clothes?" I asked. I stood up, but I'd done so too fast, and I felt the wooziness return.

"I've got you, sir," da Costa said. He steadied me and gave me a few seconds to orient myself and catch my breath. "I'm worried you're dehydrated again, sir. I'm going to ask Lt Ogawa to check you."

"I'm okay now," I said. "I just stood up too fast." I realised I was shaking. "It's cold," I said.

"I'm going to walk you to the shower, sir." Da Costa kept his hand on my arm, and he guided me out the door and into the head. "Djani," he called. "Can you stay with the Commander for a moment?"

Djani Tekka – who had to be one of the nicest guys on the whole ship – grinned and came right over. "Of course, Joao," he said.

He had the most musical voice I'd ever heard. I'd been trying to get him to sing with us, but he was too shy. "Da Costa thought I should take a shower," I said, "and I'd like to, but I don't know if I have any clean clothes."

"You do, Commander," Djani answered. "I'll fetch them for you when Joao comes back. Mr Stoch recommended we get you a dresser and a table, sir, and that's on schedule for this afternoon when you're in treatment."

"I'd sort of hoped I could achieve day patient status," I said. I stepped into the shower and handed Djani my clothes. It felt good to just stand there under the hot water and let it warm me up. I could feel some of the tension leaving my neck and shoulders.

"You're not well enough yet, sir," Djani said. "Too many medical issues to contend with."

"I know," I answered. I shut the shower off and said, "Can you hand me the towel?"

As I was drying off I heard da Costa come in. "I've got your clothes, Commander," he said, and he handed me my shorts and trousers.

"Thanks." I dressed and stepped out of the shower.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked.

I nodded, and finished dressing, then quickly combed my hair and brushed my teeth. "I don't," I said, "want to keep Deanna waiting."

Da Costa walked me back to my room, where Ogawa was waiting for me, and she checked my vital signs. I bent over to put my shoes on, and felt the wooziness return; immediately both da Costa and Ogawa were beside me.

"I'm all right," I said. "Just a bit of dizziness."

"What's his blood pressure?" da Costa asked.

"It's a little low," Ogawa said. "I'll let Dr Crusher know. Wait here."

I finished putting my shoes on and stood up. "We're supposed to be going to Deck Eight now," I said.

"Sir," da Costa replied. "We need to wait for permission from Dr Crusher. Your dizziness, your tiredness, and low blood pressure could all indicate that you're dehydrated again."

"Well, give me some of Guinan's mint tea then," I said. "I'm sure it's programmed. I'll drink that."

Beverly appeared in the doorway. "Just take a sample, Alyssa," she said. "I'm just going to check your blood, Commander," she said to me.

Alyssa took some blood, and she and Beverly disappeared.

"I should contact Dr McBride," da Costa said. "If you're not that dehydrated, we shouldn't cancel CBT."

He called for Djani to come sit with me. I sat back down.

"I never seem to be able to get through one day without some sort of a fucking crisis," I said.

"Perhaps you should try one of your visualisations, Commander," Djani said.

"Shit," I answered, "not you, too."

Da Costa came back into the room, holding a cup of something. "Here," he said, "Dr Crusher wants you to drink this, sir. It should restore the electrolyte balance."

"It's not orange-flavoured, right?" I asked, taking the cup.

Da Costa sighed. "No, sir," he answered.

It was grape, and it was disgusting, slightly sweet, with an aftertaste, but I drank it. "I'm cleared to go, then?" I asked.

"Sir," da Costa replied, taking the cup and disposing of it. "We're not going to walk you to Deck Eight. We'll transport you from here to Counsellor Troi's office. She'll be there waiting for you, and she'll comm. me when it's time for you to walk to Dr McBride's office."

"Okay," I said.

I followed him out into sickbay and waited to be transported to Deanna's office. It was a little strange, since I hadn't used the transporter in maybe three weeks. I was dizzy again when I arrived in Deanna's office, but she was right there, as da Costa had said she would be, and she steadied me and led me to her sofa.

"Joao said you'd asked for some of Guinan's mint tea," Deanna said. "I contacted Guinan, and she's programmed it into the replicator. I'll get you a cup. Here, sit down slowly, Will."

"This is beginning to irritate me," I said. "I'm just a little dizzy, that's all."

"Oh, Will," Deanna said, and walked to the replicator. She came back with the tea, and then sat down across from me, her own mug in front of her. "We're just going to do some preliminary work today, Will," she said. "First off," and she pushed the padd towards me, "we need to set some goals for your treatment, and then we need to set a goal for this week."

I took the padd. "I thought the goal was to cure me," I said. I was still feeling pretty irritated.

"Heal you," Deanna said, "not cure you. There's no _cure_ for this disorder, Will. We can help you heal, restore your equilibrium, remove most of the symptoms, and give you the tools you need to manage the disorder now, and in the future, whenever other events occur."

"Are you saying I'm permanently disabled, then?" I asked.

"No," Deanna said, drawing out the word the way she did. "The syndrome – and it's really a syndrome, not a disorder – can be managed and controlled to the point where it will no longer intrude in your life. However – it's the same thing as if you'd done some injury to your back, or your leg. In the future, something may happen to aggravate the old injury – another traumatic event. A firefight, for example, with the Cardassians; an away mission that goes wrong; you lose a team member. You will be susceptible to symptoms – but you'll have the skills and the tools to recognise the patterns of illness and to reintegrate healing."

"There will still be triggers, then," I said. "And I'll have to be aware of them? Like the fucking orange juice?"

"Language, Will," Deanna said. "We will help you deactivate these triggers, Will. You may never like orange juice, but it won't cause you to dissociate. Stressful experiences may cause new triggers, however. There's still so much that Dr McBride is working on. For example, he receives journals from a select group of former patients in one study he's doing – Joao's brother is one of them – to follow instances of stress and how the illness manifests itself in other ways."

"So I'm permanently disabled," I repeated. "I'll always be a question mark, a loose cannon. Will Riker be able to cope with this mission, or will it send him back to sickbay? I can't function as first officer if there are going to be those questions about my ability, Deanna."

"Neither Dr McBride nor I believe that to be the case, Will. No one has suggested that the captain give up his captaincy because he has a mechanical heart." She paused for a moment, and then said, "Why don't you let me guide you through a relaxation exercise. Then we can begin our work."

"I don't want to go through another relaxation exercise," I said. "Just show me what it is you want me to do."

"Will," Deanna said. "Listen to me. You're feeling angry and upset. These feelings need to be dealt with now, before we go on. I'll put on some quiet music. You drink your tea. You can tell me how rehab went. We'll come back to this."

"I just don't understand," I said, "why I should put myself – and everyone around me, clearly – through six weeks of hell if I'm not going to be cured. If I'm not going to be able to function as first officer, I should be invalided out, and sent back to San Francisco."

Deanna put on one of her tracks I'd heard her use before, with other "clients," and returned to her chair with a refill of her tea. She took my hands and said, "William. You are catastrophising. Dr McBride has told you he has a high success rate, and he does. The process works – but it's a process, Will, not a hypo spray. There's no vaccine, no magic meds, no magic wand. You may always be susceptible, Will – but some people are susceptible to developing allergies."

"There is," I said, "some difference between a runny nose and attempting suicide as a response to trauma."

"Your suicide attempt was a response to a cascade of untreated symptoms. It was a response to old trauma – not new. Did you attempt suicide after the Borg? No, of course you didn't."

I sighed. It was clear that I wasn't going to get anywhere with this conversation – and I didn't quite know whether it was because I wasn't understanding something or because Deanna wasn't understanding me. If I drank the tea and calmed myself down, we could move forward – otherwise, the afternoon would just drag on.

"Okay," I said. I took a couple sips of the tea. My head was starting to hurt again.

"Let's try to calm you down a bit," Deanna said, and she took me through the basic breathing and muscle relaxing exercise. "If you'll look at your padd, Will, you'll see I've got a questionnaire for you to fill out. Just answer it as honestly as you can and then send it to me."

I resisted rolling my eyes and looked down at the questionnaire. There were only ten questions, but they were obnoxious and simplistic, and went the gamut from "I am angry about the event(s) which caused my PTSD" to "I am always wondering why this happened to me." I closed my eyes briefly, because what I felt like doing was hurling the padd across the room.

"You are finding the questions intrusive, I know, Will," Deanna said softly, "but there is a therapeutic purpose to answering them. Just keep breathing and answer as best you can."

Yes, I am happy about the events that caused my PTSD. I answered the questions, trying not to think about them at all, just circling whatever came first.

"We're going to restructure your emotions, Will – reset them, if you like. When you take this questionnaire again, at the end of the program, you should be able to see some real progress. In the meantime, let's talk about one small goal that we can set for this week. If you could work on one problem that you're experiencing now, what would it be?"

I put the padd down. "Such as?" I asked.

"What's bothering you the most right now?"

I thought about it. My head hurt, my stomach made it impossible for me to eat, everyone was on my case all the time….I was tired but I couldn't sleep.

"I keep waking up in the middle of the night," I said. "I don't think I've slept through the night more than once or twice since everything started."

"You mean, going back to your original holodeck injury?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "Last week, the first night I spent outside of the ICU, I slept through. And the second night I spent with Jean-Luc I slept. I can't remember when I slept through the night before that. I had the night terrors almost every night."

"So your goal would be to sleep through the night at least once this week?" Deanna asked.

"Yes," I said. "The medication Beverly and Dr Sandoval keep giving me is supposed to knock me out, but it doesn't."

"We'll set that as your goal for this week, then," Deanna agreed. "I'll be reviewing this with Dr McBride and Beverly. When I see you tomorrow for your session with me, I should be able to offer some suggestions that you can try." She took my hand again. "I know you feel as if you're getting nowhere, Will," she said. "But you are on schedule. You're doing fine." She let go of me, and commed da Costa. "Troi to da Costa. Commander Riker is ready for his session with Dr McBride."

She stood up, and took my empty cup and her mug, and disposed of them. "Joao will be here in a few minutes, Will," she said. "Why don't you just rest until then?"

"Sure," I said. I didn't have the energy to argue with her anymore. I closed my eyes, and waited for da Costa.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty-Two

Da Costa showed up about almost ten minutes later, and walked me down the corridor to Dr McBride's offices.

"I don't understand," I said, hesitantly, because I was really done with pissing people off for today, "why Deanna had to call you to escort me. I mean, da Costa, it's just down the corridor. She could have walked me herself." Da Costa looked up at me, and I added, "I understand why I have to be escorted. I just don't understand why you had to be brought down here, when Deanna was right here."

Our footsteps were echoing in the empty corridor, a sound that I was beginning to hate.

"The captain's orders were for me to escort you, Commander," da Costa said.

"He doesn't trust me with Deanna?" I asked. I glanced at him and then I said, "I know, he doesn't explain his orders to you." I sighed. "It just seems a waste of time and personnel, that's all. I'm sure you have things you need to be doing. He could assign security to me, instead of you."

"Security would not be trained in protocol in handling you, sir," da Costa said, "and it would take time and personnel to train them. It's far simpler this way."

"Handling me?" I repeated. "You handle me, then?"

"Would you prefer manage, then, sir?" da Costa asked.

I glanced down at him and saw that he was smiling.

"Oh, fuck you, da Costa," I said.

"Your default position," da Costa replied. "No offence taken, sir."

"None given," I said, grinning.

We were at Dr McBride's office, and da Costa keyed the door open and we walked in. This was the first time I'd been in his office and he'd done it up nicely, lots of plants and a fountain somewhere, the Betazoid couches arranged around a coffee table, and two closed offices to the side. He came out of one of them – his own personal office, no doubt – showing absolutely no ill effects from my having kept him from sleeping more often than not. I wondered if he'd gone to bed at all – I knew that Jean-Luc hadn't slept, even though he'd been beside me.

"William," he said, extending his arm and then guiding me to one of the couches. "Joao. We're going to be working out here today, Will, just you and I. Joao will be in his office if we need him, and I expect Deanna may join us, if she gets the chance to, later on."

Of course da Costa had neglected to tell me he had his own office here. I sat down and felt the heat from the fabric begin to radiate the backs of my legs.

"What would you like to drink, Will?" McBride asked. "I can offer you a cup of coffee, if you'd like – although Dr Crusher insists it must be decaffeinated."

"Water, I guess," I said. "I'm not really thirsty."

"Water it is," he replied.

"I'll get it, Doctor," da Costa said. "Are you having tea?"

"Yes, Joao, my usual," McBride answered. He sat down across from me.

Da Costa returned almost immediately with Dr McBride's tea and my water, and then he disappeared into the other office.

"So you had your first session with Deanna," McBride said. "And you worked this morning on creating a safe space onboard with her, yes?"

I nodded.

"And your PT sessions went well?" he asked.

"They were okay," I said. "Cardio was tough because I was tired."

"But your time in the hyperbaric chamber made it easier for your second session of PT?"

"Yes."

"Good. And you set a goal for this week with Deanna," he continued. "I expect she'll send me her notes as soon as she's finished."

"Or you could just ask me," I said.

"I could," he replied. "But I think I'll wait for Deanna's notes."

I didn't respond. I tried to remember what my schedule had listed for these two hours with Dr McBride, whether it was memory retrieval or one of the other therapies he'd mentioned when he went over this stuff with me – reintegration of self or I don't know. I couldn't remember the schedule saying anything about what I was supposed to be doing.

He didn't say anything at all, just sat there and sipped his tea.

Finally I said, "Where's Jean-Luc?"

"We won't be doing memory retrieval today, Will," McBride answered.

"Okay," I said, "but he's on my schedule at this time, isn't he?"

"Usually," McBride answered. He set his mug down. "However, not today. I've given him the day off."

"You've given him the day off?" I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It means, Will," McBride said, "that you will see Jean-Luc tomorrow."

I was still. "You mean, you've given him the day off from me," I said.

"That's right," McBride agreed. "You may see him tomorrow for lunch, if he has the time. More likely you'll see him after dinner tomorrow night."

"He needed time off from me," I said.

"Yes, he did."

"I won't be seeing him tonight at all," I said. "He won't be spending the night with me."

"No, he'll be getting a good night's sleep in his quarters," McBride said.

"He didn't say anything to me about this, this morning," I said.

"No, I asked him not to."

I didn't say anything, because the conversation we'd had this morning was spinning around in my head. He'd said he'd talked to McBride, that it had made him feel better. So getting the day off from me had made him feel better.

"How are you feeling right now, Will?" McBride asked.

"Are you trying to wind me up?" I asked.

"What does that mean, Will?" McBride responded.

I shifted in my seat, realising for the first time that the couch I was seated on was lower than the one across from me, putting me at eye level with McBride.

"You're supposed to be my therapist," I said, "so why are you playing games with me?"

"How am I playing games with you, Will?" He was using that special tone of voice again.

"The dynamic of the couch size, for example," I said. "If I'm supposed to trust you, why would you be using tactics that one might use with the Cardassians?"

McBride smiled in that genial way of his. "You use your height and size to control the environment around you," he said. "I've just leveled the playing field."

"I'm not even that big," I protested.

"Yes, you've been pretty effective in reducing your body mass," McBride replied. "Nevertheless, I prefer to be looking across at you, as opposed to looking up."

"So the couch was lowered for me," I said.

"Yes, that's right." He sipped his tea again.

"You asked Jean-Luc to withhold information from me, when you know that he promised me that we'd be honest with each other." I was having a hard time maintaining control.

"You have hardly been honest with him, Will," McBride replied.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You have been withholding information from him, haven't you?"

I didn't know what to say. "What kind of information?"

"You've remembered much more than you are willing to say," McBride said.

"That's not true," I said. "I don't remember anything." My head was beginning to hurt again.

"You remember Rosie," Dr McBride said.

It felt as if an iron bar were crashing against my head. I closed my eyes against it; I could feel myself start to shake and then I felt my stomach clench and I was puking all over the floor and his damned Betazoid couch.

He put his hand on my back and just left it there as I heaved up the little I'd taken in. I heard da Costa come out, and McBride said,

"Everything is under control, Joao. I have this."

"I'll just get a towel," da Costa said quietly, and I heard him go to the head. McBride took the towel from him but didn't move.

"You are expelling food, William," McBride said, "not the memories. You could throw up every last bit of nourishment in your body, but the memories will remain."

I was choking and crying, and he wiped my face with the towel.

"I didn't remember about Rosie," I said. "I didn't."

"You were running, looking for Jean-Luc," McBride said. "You were running down the corridor of Deck Nine. You were looking for him in his quarters, but his quarters kept expanding, and you couldn't find him. You were too late."

Somehow I was on the floor, and I said, "I tried to find him. I tried. I did try."

"You were looking for Rosie," McBride said, "but you couldn't find her. She wasn't home. She wasn't at school. She wasn't at practise. She wasn't in the woods, or by the creek. She hadn't taken Patch. You looked and looked for her, but you couldn't find her."

"No," I said, "I didn't look hard enough, I could have found her, I didn't try hard enough, I should have – "

"You should have what, hen?" Alasdair McBride asked, and he had his arms wrapped around me.

"I should have known," I whispered, "I should have known."

"Go ahead and cry, William," McBride said. "This is something you need to cry about."

"Why didn't he just leave me? I didn't deserve for him to save me. I don't deserve to be here. I don't deserve to be alive."

"The Federation doesn't put juveniles to death," McBride said. "No one has, not in a very long time. You can't give yourself a death sentence, William. You were only a little boy."

I said, "But it was my fault. He did it because of me."

"What did he do because of you, William?"

"Please," I said, and I was holding my head in my hands, trying to stop it from just bursting with the pain.

"What did he do, William, because of you?"

"He took her away."

"What did he do, William?"

"I couldn't find her. I tried to find her."

"What did he do?"

I said, "He killed her."

I felt the pressure of the hypo spray in my neck.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter Fifty-Three

If I had thought that my latest bout of hysteria would relieve me of McBride's therapy, or would return to my room in sickbay, I was mistaken. Instead, he had da Costa lift me off the floor and take me to the head, clean me up – the fact that he had a shower in his office told me more about him – and more about me – than I wanted to know – and deposit me right back on that Betazoid couch. The hypo spray he'd given me – and I'd forgotten that he was a doctor, first – hadn't knocked me out. What it had done was replace my feelings of hysteria and terror with a feeling that everything was distant from me, as if I were watching it outside of myself. As with everything, it seemed, this feeling brought back the smell of disinfectant, and did nothing to ease the pain in my head.

Of course, he'd told me earlier in the week, when I'd come out of the ICU, that he was going to give me an anti-psychotic. He told me what it was, and that I'd been on one before, and when. He explained very matter-of-factly why I needed to be on one, that I was having breaks with reality, that I was having hallucinations. That I was splitting, he said, into my two damaged selves – me, and Billy.

Which left me, sitting here in his office, trying to cope with the memories of what had happened to my friend Rosie and with the memories of what had happened to me on the unit.

They are connected, I thought. I'm not sure why I thought that – except that they both involved the terrible things that I had done, that I'd never been punished for and that had been left unresolved. The boy that I'd killed, whose name I still couldn't remember. And that no one had ever found Rosie.

Then I thought, they are both connected by my own self-loathing.

I missed Jean-Luc.

"Can you tell me," McBride asked, "how you are feeling right now?"

"My head hurts," I said. The warmth that was being reflected back to me by the couch was uncomfortable, and I tried to find a better position to sit in.

"Show me," McBride said.

"Right here," I said, pointing to above my left eye. "Then it radiates out."

"Joao, can you bring up his file for me?" McBride stood up, and gave his padd to da Costa, who'd gone back to his office after he'd gotten me settled. He walked over to me, and placed his hand on my head. "Here?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Joao, this is where the fracture was, isn't it?" McBride kept his hand on my head. "It radiates out which way? This way, or this way?" He was moving his hand now, first up and over my forehead, then around my left side.

"To the left," I said.

"And you're feeling this pain, right now? You're not feeling it outside of yourself? Because your other feelings – maybe the fear you're still experiencing? The sadness? – you're feeling them as if they were in front of you, or to the side, maybe?"

It was hard to concentrate with his hands on my head. I tried to think through what he was asking me. The medication was supposed to make me feel distanced from what I was experiencing – which was just the way I was feeling, as he'd said, my fear and the feeling that the hysteria would come surging up again with the littlest bit of provocation, were outside of myself, as if those feelings were floating in front of me somehow. But the pain in my head – the pain that da Costa said was remembered pain, from when I'd had my head smashed into the hospital floor – that was still right there, above my eye, where it always was. I could still think, as best I could think these days, and I could still see – it wasn't yet the kind of pain that left me screaming – but it sure as hell wasn't floating outside of me either.

"What do you want to look up, sir?" da Costa asked.

"Show me the visual of his concussion, the one he had four weeks ago," McBride said. "Do we have pictures from ProvidenceHospital for the skull fracture?"

"I don't know if Commander Data was able to retrieve those files, sir," da Costa said. "I'll check."

"Will? Your other feelings? Besides your head pain?" McBride took his hands away from my head, and returned to his seat.

"They're outside of me," I said. "Like you said."

"And can you name them?" he asked. Then he said, and he smiled, "Let me amend that. Can you name them and breathe at the same time? Or do we need to do some more breathing first?"

Of course I wasn't breathing. I took a breath and said, "I feel like I'm going to lose control."

"What's underneath that feeling, Will?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do," he said. "Thank you, Joao. Ah, here it is."

I waited for him to finish looking at his padd.

"Is it the same area?" da Costa asked.

"It is," McBride said. "When is he scheduled for the brain scans?"

"In two days, sir," da Costa said, taking the padd back.

"Contact Dr Crusher and ask if we can't move that up to tomorrow," he said.

"Aye, sir," da Costa replied. He returned to his office.

"Will?" McBride returned his focus to me. "What is the feeling that makes you think you are going to lose control?"

"I don't know," I said.

"William. I know this is hard. I know you don't want to talk about any of this. It's almost easier, isn't it, to just have a flashback and get it all over with." He paused, but I just looked at the floor. "You will never get rid of the symptoms, William, if we don't go to the very beginning, to the heart of these issues, and discuss them. From the ages of five to fifteen, Will, you were frozen, an automaton, living in one world of intermittent, terrifying abuse while trying to function in the other, every day world. But that numbness is gone now, Will. Everything you are feeling now, you felt then – but you suppressed those feelings, hid them away from your conscious self because you had to, in order to survive. You are in the same life or death struggle now that you were in then – only this time the way to live, Will, is to open the door, to look at what happened, to shed healing light on it, to discover what happened, how you responded, and why you responded in that way. To do this work, Will, you've got to talk about things you've never talked about before. To me. To Deanna. To Joao. To Jean-Luc."

I said – or maybe it was Billy who said it, "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know," McBride said, and he was using the G major tone again. "Keep breathing, Will. Tell me why you think you're going to lose control."

"My head hurts,' I said. "When the pain gets worse, I can't function. Something always happens. I have a flashback, or a meltdown, or something."

"Is the pain getting worse?"

I thought for a moment. "No," I said. "It's just hovering there."

"So it could get worse, and you could lose control."

"Yes."

"And the feeling underneath that, underneath the fear of losing control? Can you name that feeling for me?"

"I still don't understand," I said.

"What feeling are you controlling, Will? What feeling is so frightening to you that you have to maintain control? You are," he said, "perfectly safe here. I am here, and Joao is here. What's the most terrible thing that could happen, if you lost control again?"

I looked at him. He was sitting there, completely at ease with himself, using that voice that somehow seemed to be able to manipulate me into saying or doing whatever it was that he wanted me to say or do. When, I wondered, was the last time I had felt good in my own damned skin, the way he was so comfortable in his? He didn't have to prove anything, to compete for anything, to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure there wasn't some kid coming up behind him to take his job.

"You're feeling it now, aren't you, Will?" he said, and he smiled at me.

"Why don't you just shut up?" I said. "Why don't you stop manipulating me? First you tried to make me upset over Jean-Luc, and now you're trying to get me to say something I don't even understand. Why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?"

"And can you name this feeling, Will?" he asked.

"Fuck you," I said, and I stood up, trying not to sway from the sudden dizziness.

"I can name the feeling for you, Will," McBride said, "but I would rather you name it yourself."

"I said, shut up!" I could feel my fists clenching. I heard, rather than saw, da Costa come out of his office.

"What would you like to do, Will? What is so frightening about this feeling that you have to control it? What will happen if you don't control it, if you just let go?"

It was anger – I was angry with McBride, because nothing bad had ever happened to him. Because he'd told Jean-Luc to leave me – and then had told Jean-Luc not to tell me. Because he was making me go through this – this stupid process that wasn't helping, that wasn't working, that was only making things worse. Because he'd told me I could get well and I wasn't. Because I was going to lose Jean-Luc if I didn't get better, because it was my fault he was so overworked and tired. Because Jean-Luc was in danger and that was my fault too.

"What's the feeling, William?" McBride asked softly.

"Can't you just shut the fuck up?" I said. "It's anger, okay? I'm angry."

"Are you sure this is only anger, Will?" he asked. "Anger is a fairly commonplace emotion, isn't it? A useful one, too, because it tells us that's something's wrong, or isn't working. Are you sure you're feeling only anger?"

I tried to focus on him, still sitting across from me, as if I hadn't stood up and didn't have my fists clenched, but it was as if there were a viewscreen that kept flickering in and out, and I kept seeing myself drifting down the hospital corridor, clutching the sharpened stylus between my fingers.

"Is your anger so terrible that you have to keep it under control, all the time? It would make it pretty hard to do your job as first officer; it seems to me, Will, if you were spending all that emotional energy not to get angry about the smallest things. And you've been a perfect first officer, haven't you? Are you sure it's only anger you're feeling?"

I could see myself, standing by the wall in the unit common room, just sort of casually standing there, scraping the stylus into a knife right in front of everyone. No one had seen me, because there was nothing to see. I was in complete control. What I felt had been put in the same place I put all my other feelings. In a box somewhere, way back where I wouldn't have to feel it, wouldn't have to deal with it, wouldn't have to let others see.

Have you ever," McBride said, and he stood up, and came round to me, and simply guided me back down onto the couch, "seen a baby scream in frustration when it's hungry? Or when it needs something and the need isn't being fulfilled fast enough?"

"I guess," I said. "I've been watching Molly grow up." I was trying to breathe. "She's the daughter of Master Chief O'Brien."

"It's not very pretty, is it?" he asked. "Their faces contort, and the sound they emit is piercing, enough to destroy anyone's equilibrium – which if, of course, exactly what it's designed to do. An infant can't do anything for itself, so it copes by reacting in rage, Will, to whenever its needs are unfulfilled. A child's rage, Will – that's a powerful feeling." He paused. "That's a feeling – that primal rage – which you would have to control. It wouldn't be very productive, would it, for an adult to react to frustration with rage?"

"You're saying the feeling underneath my fear of losing control is rage," I said.

"Rage is dangerous, isn't it? Wouldn't you need to control it? After all, think of what could happen when rage surfaces, without control."

I saw myself drifting down the corridor again, not even focusing, just wandering into my room, opening the door to see –

"Why don't you tell me what happened, Will, when you lost control of your rage," McBride said.

I said, "I killed him. He wouldn't leave me alone, so I killed him."

"And how did you do that?"

"I found a stylus in the nurse's office. I stood in the common room and sharpened it against the wall, right there in front of everyone and nobody saw. I told him I'd let him fuck me after lunch. He was waiting for me in the bathroom, in our room. I kept it hidden, in my pocket. I went into the bathroom and he was standing there with his shorts down and I stabbed him, over and over again, and the blood was spurting out, and it was all over me and the floor, and he was screaming." I could feel myself shaking, and I could feel the pain in my head like some _thing_ just above my eye, but I wasn't crying. I was stone. "Then the orderly came in and pulled me off him and smashed my head into the floor."

"And how old were you, Will, when you killed this little boy? Because that's what he was, right, a little boy?"

"He was fucking me," I said and I felt nothing as I said it, not even the pain. "I wanted him to stop."

"How old were you, Will?" McBride repeated.

"Seven," I answered. "I was seven."

"And the boy?"

"I don't know. He was older. Nine or ten, maybe."

"And he was penetrating you, anally? At night, after you'd gone to bed?"

I could feel – rage – in my stomach, coiling around. "Yes."

"And you let him," McBride suggested. "You didn't want him to, but you let him."

"He threatened me," I said. "He said he would kill me if I told. He said nobody would believe me. He said that they all knew that's what I liked, anyway. That the orderly would fuck me too, if I told."

"How did it go, then, William? He came up to you when you were in bed, and told you what he wanted, and threatened you? Is that what happened?"

"He made me suck him first," I said, and I could feel the disgust joining the anger – the rage – in my gut. My head was starting to pound, and I closed my eyes against it. "Then he wanted more."

"He escalated the behaviour," McBride said. "Indeed, exactly as your father had, didn't he? First by having you fellate him, and then by raping you. Perhaps Christian's father had done the exact same thing as yours to him. After all, how else would he know the right pattern of abuse, to get compliance from you?"

I didn't say anything. The boy's name was Christian – I'd remembered as soon as McBride said it. I remembered what he looked like, what he sounded like. That he whispered, "You are so hot, baby," to me when he fucked me.

"And it was too much, wasn't it, William?" McBride said. "Too much for Billy. He couldn't kill his father, could he, although he must have wanted to with every fibre of his being. So he killed nine-year-old Christian Larsen - a little boy who'd been just as badly abused as he had been – instead. Is this why you are so afraid of losing control, William? Because you're a killer, when you lose control? Because, William, you are just like your father when you lose control?"

"No," I said.

"No, you're not a killer? Or no, you're not just like your father?"

"He came after me," I said. "He hurt me. He wasn't going to stop hurting me. He threatened to give me to Brec, to the orderly that wanted me. I was defending myself. It's not the same. I didn't know," and now I was weeping again, "I didn't understand. I didn't understand it would be like that. I didn't know – it played out in my head, like in a film, but – there was so much blood – and it's hot, it's hot when it comes out, and it smells – and he was screaming, Why, why, why, like he didn't understand…."

"And he didn't understand," McBride said. "How could he? He was just a damaged little boy, wasn't he? Just like you were just a damaged little boy."

"I never raped anyone," I said.

"No. You stabbed to death a nine-year-old child," he answered.

"And I let Mittens die, and I let Rosie die," I said.

"And you killed your mother, don't forget," McBride answered.

I looked up at him. "You said my mother died from a virus. You said I had nothing to do with it, that she caught the virus on an away team mission."

"That's right," McBride agreed. "I did say that."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Of course you don't," McBride said, and he was using that gentle tone with me again. "Look at me, Will. Here, give me your hands," and he took both my hands and held them. "We've been playing a little game, Will. It's a game all of my patients play with me, when they start the therapeutic process. It's a game that's part of the fabric of having been abused. It's such a common game, in fact, that it's been written about and discussed for centuries in psychoanalytic thought. It even has a name, Will – it's called the _Let's hunt for the evil_ game."

I could see my hands trembling in his, could feel my shoulders shaking – and then I felt da Costa rest his hands on my shoulders, behind me. "I don't understand," I said.

"You were told, from the time your mother died, that you deserved the treatment you received," McBride told me. "If you are told something, from babyhood on through adolescence, whether it is true or not, it becomes a permanent statement of belief. You are bad. You killed your mother. You liked being fellated, being raped. You deserved the beatings, the broken bones. And then you come to me – as with all of my patients who have been victims of such abuse – and you tell me that if I understood how truly terrible you are – all the horrifying things that you have done – all the evil that you have done – then I would understand why your father treated you the way he did, and maybe – just maybe – I could then explain it to you. Because even though you know – in the way that you know your eyes are blue – that you are evil, and you have done evil, you still don't understand why you had to be beaten, and raped, and manipulated, and abused. Because there is a very small part of you, William, that says you weren't evil, and you didn't deserve to be treated that way. And no matter how hard you try to silence that voice, you can still hear it. Do you know why you can still hear it?"

"No," I whispered.

"Because that is the only voice that is telling you the truth, William," McBride said. "What does a two-year-old know from evil? Two-year-olds just are. You never did anything in your whole childhood that caused you to deserve the abuse that you suffered. You were not responsible for any of it. And yet you play the game – the hunt for evil game – every day of your life, because you keep hoping that you'll find the one reason why you deserved to be raped when you were five years old."

"I killed a child," I said. "I killed that boy. Christian Larsen. I did that."

"Even if that were true, William – and it is not – your stabbing Christian Larsen occurred when you were seven years old and on the crisis stabilisation unit at ProvidenceHospital in Valdez. You were three – or perhaps even younger – when your father first sexually assaulted you. You were two-and-a-half when you witnessed the hemorrhaging of your mother that led to her death. You were five years old when your father raped you for the first time. All of that happened before you stabbed Christian Larsen, not after. What did you do to deserve those acts of violence, William? By the time you were seven, William, your father had been consistently raping you for two years. _Two years_."

"I didn't do anything before," I said numbly.

"No," McBride answered. You didn't do anything before. Not when you were an infant. Not when you were a toddler. Not when you were a child. Not when you were an adolescent. You underwent twelve years of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse and you never did one thing to deserve it. You were there, in the control of your father, who was and is an evil man, and so these things were done to you. It's time, Will, to stop playing let's hunt the evil."

"I did evil," I said. "I killed Christian Larsen. Deliberately, with premeditation. I brought the cat into the house when I knew what would happen. And I led my father right to Rosie – first by getting into a fight over her, and then by choosing her over the cat."

"William. Look at me."

I wiped my eyes and looked across at him. What I saw there – it was like what I saw on Jean-Luc's face, or Deanna's, or even Beverly's, even though I irritated the hell out of her. Kindness, concern – did McBride care about me? I was his patient, so he had to care for me in a professional way – but there was more than that on his face. I felt pressure from da Costa's hands, then, on my shoulders, as he squeezed them, and it was almost too much for me to take.

"Will you listen to me, now? Can you focus on what I am going to tell you?" McBride asked. "I believe you are ready to hear this, now."

I nodded, feeling the continued pressure from da Costa's hands.

"William – Billy – " McBride began. "Christian Larsen is still alive. He is an associate professor of literature at the University of Alaska in Anchorage. He has written two novels, quite well-received. You did not kill him. It's true, you stabbed him, three times, but he was rushed into emergency surgery, as you were, and he recovered. The evil that happened on the unit was uncovered. The doctor and the orderlies were terminated, the program revamped. That Christian was sexually abusing you was discovered – Christian admitted it himself. He was treated for his trauma by a competent doctor, released into therapeutic foster care, and was eventually placed with a loving family."

"But – " I couldn't think how to explain what I wanted to say. I remembered his blood, spurting everywhere. The bathroom was covered in it. I was covered in it. I remembered him screaming why, and then I remembered that awful gurgling sound as he drowned in his own blood. I remembered – I remembered telling my father that I could grow up and kill him, because I'd already killed someone else, and everyone would think I'd forgotten it. I remembered my father telling me that the boy was dead.

"I didn't kill him?"

"No, William," McBride said. "You didn't kill him. You assaulted him – you hurt him – that's true. You did some damage, but it was repaired. And your attack revealed what was happening on that unit. Christian's life changed for the good, as did the other children's who were there. Only yours didn't change – because your father took you home, and he refused to comply with the treatment plan for you. He didn't take you to the child psychiatrist you were supposed to be seeing, or to the specialised paediatrician. What did he do instead?"

"He told me that I'd killed him," I said. "Or he let me believe that I killed him. He let me think that I was bad. That I deserved – oh, God." I put my face in my hands.

"Just let the tears come, William," McBride said. "It's all right for you to cry over this."

"All my life I thought I killed him," I said. "All my life."

"There was no police report," McBride said. "No investigation. No charges. No trial. Because everyone understood why you attacked Christian Larsen. The unit was reorganised, so that it would function correctly. The corruption and the neglect were eliminated. Positive outcomes. You were just a little boy, only seven years old. The irony is, Will, that if you _had_ killed Christian Larsen, you would have been removed from your father's care and sent to a therapeutic facility, where you would have received the treatment you needed."

"Everything he ever said to me was a lie," I said.

"Yes," McBride confirmed. "Tell me what his lies were."

"I didn't kill my mother."

"No, William. You didn't kill your mother."

"She was infected by a virus that she caught on an away mission, and she died from that illness."

"Yes."

"I didn't deserve to be –" I was about to say _fucked_, but that wasn't what it was, was it? "I didn't deserve to be raped. I didn't deserve to be forced into sex by him."

"No. No child ever deserves to be sexually abused."

"I didn't kill Christian Larsen. Christian Larsen is still alive." I couldn't wrap my head around it.

"Yes. Christian Larsen is alive and successful, living in Anchorage." He paused, and then said, "What are you feeling now, William?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm so confused."

"How is the pain in your head?"

I thought for a moment. "It's still there," I answered. "But it's not as bad as it was."

"Our time is up for today." McBride stood up. "Before Joao takes you back to your room, Will, can you agree to do one thing for me?"

Da Costa had released my shoulders, and I stood up as well. "What?" I asked. I was still feeling dizzy when I stood.

"Will you agree to stop playing hunt the evil in our sessions?" he asked me. "I don't know that you're ready to agree to stop playing the game altogether – but will you agree to stop playing it here, with me?"

"Because I wasn't evil?" I asked.

"Because, Will," he answered, "you have never been evil."

Somehow – and I didn't understand how this could be so – it was easier for me to breathe. "I've never been evil," I repeated, "so I don't have to play the game anymore."

"No, you don't."

"Yes," I said. "I agree."

"Good." McBride smiled at me. "So Joao – would you check his vitals again for me? We need to know whether he's strong enough to go back to sickbay. And, Will – you know you're scheduled for recreation after your dinner, don't you?"

"Jai told me," I said, watching da Costa go back to his office to get the tricorder.

"How would you like a little company tonight?" McBride asked.

"You told me I wouldn't see Jean-Luc until tomorrow," I said.

"That's true," McBride answered. He said to da Costa, "What's his blood pressure like?"

"It's still on the low side," da Costa answered, "although it's not as low as it was this morning."

"And his oxygen levels?"

"Ninety-four percent."

"Isn't he scheduled for relaxation, before his meal?" McBride asked, looking at the results himself.

"Aye, sir," da Costa said.

"See that he has that, then," McBride ordered.

"Aye, sir."

"He should be transported to sickbay," McBride said. "I don't want him using anymore energy, not with his breathing the way it is. Will you arrange that, Joao?"

"Aye, sir," da Costa said again, and he went into his office.

McBride returned to me. "I'm sorry, Will," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt our conversation."

"You said I wouldn't see Jean-Luc today," I repeated, and I was so exhausted I didn't even feel anger at this anymore.

"Yes," McBride said. "I gave Jean-Luc what we call respite care. He needed a break, that's all. He was exhausted, and feeling overwhelmed. And he was worried that his anxiety over how you were doing was only feeding your own anxiety."

"He could have told me," I said, and then I felt stupid, because I sounded like a sullen child.

"And you would have responded to him the way you responded to me," McBride answered, "and that wouldn't have done either one of you any good."

I sighed. "He needs to get some sleep," I agreed, finally, "and I keep waking him up."

"Yes."

I was not going to cry. "Okay," I said. "I understand."

"I knew you would, eventually," McBride said. "Ah, here's Joao. Is it all set up?"

"Yes," da Costa answered. "We'll go together."

"Good. So, Will," McBride said, and he put his hand on my arm. "You have a friend who's been requesting to see you for some time. Jean-Luc and I thought it would be a good time to let you have a visitor. Give you a chance to take your mind off of yourself for a while."

That stung, a bit. "Who?" I asked.

"This fellow Worf," McBride answered, laughing. "He's been haunting sickbay, according to Dr Crusher, every day since you were brought in. It seemed easier to just let him see you, so that he'll leave Dr Crusher alone."

I couldn't imagine anyone "haunting" sickbay, let alone Worf. "Am I allowed to talk ship's business, then?" I asked. "Jean-Luc has been strict with me about that."

"I'm sure your captain has briefed Mr Worf," McBride said. "I will see you tomorrow, Will. We have a new medication for you to try, tonight. Let's hope it works."

"Okay," I said.

"And, Will?"

"Yes?"

"If you do wake up tonight, don't worry about sending for me. I'm available to you, always, if you need me. I believe, Joao, that both Mr Stoch and Dr Sandoval know this."

"Yes, sir, they do," da Costa said.

"Okay," I said. I wondered if he were an empath, like Deanna, because he always seemed to know how I was feeling before I did. I was worried about waking up, without Jean-Luc to help me.

"Two to transport," da Costa said into his comm. badge.

He reached out to steady me, and then I was back in sickbay, back to the routine of shift change and the normal, everyday busy-ness of what had become my home.

"I'll ask Mr Stoch to work with you on your breathing, Commander," da Costa said. "Do you want me to walk you to the head before I go off?"

"Please," I said, realising that I hadn't been in several hours.

"I'll tell Lt Fisk about your latest vitals before I go," da Costa continued. He turned away, so I could have a bit of privacy.

"Can't I just go to bed?" I said, washing my hands. "I'm so tired. And I don't want to be this tired when Worf comes."

"Sir," da Costa began. "You should be receiving your meal now. You need to eat."

"I'm cross-eyed," I complained. I sat down in Jean-Luc's chair and pulled my shoes off. "You can tell Stoch to wake me up in thirty minutes. I'll be okay, then. Please, Joao," I said.

It was the first time I'd used his name.

Da Costa sighed. "You win, Commander," he said, resigned. "You really do need to learn to accept no for an answer."

"You can practise _no_ on me all day tomorrow," I promised, getting into bed. "You can tell me _no_ about all kinds of things." I slid under the covers, and closed my eyes. "You can refuse to help me out of bed, and to help me in the shower, and to walk me to PT."

"Sir," da Costa said.

"You can even refuse to read me a story," I said.

"Mr Riker?" da Costa was right beside me.

"Yes?" I said.

"Just shut up and go to sleep," da Costa said, and I could hear him laughing as he shut the door.


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter Fifty-Four

Vera Kalugin listened to the good-natured teasing occurring between her two sons, Georgie and Pete, as she finished putting the kitchen to rights and fixing the coffee for herself and Greg. Greg was down to the kennels, feeding the dogs, talking to them, scratching ears and backs, checking their paws and noses to make sure they were all okay. Georgie and Pete had come into the cabin, laughing and joking over the things that boys laugh and joke about, having given their help to Greg with the feeding. Or such help as it was, Vera thought wryly; her boys were good boys, kind and generous to a fault, sweet-natured and friendly, but neither one of them would set the world on fire. She hoped that when they began to look around seriously for a girl to wed they found one who valued love above comfort, or one who had drive enough for two. Rosie, on the other hand – even in this enlightened age, old tribal memories die hard – Rosie should have been a boy. Vera had hopes for Rosie that she didn't even acknowledge to herself, sometimes, let alone to anyone else. All the grit and determination that her sons lacked had been given completely to Rosie, and it was coupled with a keen intelligence that sometimes took her breath away. Vera didn't know where Rosie's brain came from – neither she nor Greg was stupid, but they were, on the whole, ordinary people – but Rosie's brain was different. She saw the world differently. She felt things differently. She understood things that went well beyond her years.

She heard the cabin door open and Greg say, "Did you ask your mother if she needed help?"

There was the silence from the boys, and Vera smiled. Of course they hadn't. If their mother had needed help, she would have told them – they didn't need to ask.

"No, Dad," Georgie said.

"I didn't need any help," Vera said, coming into the large space that was their living and dining room. "You boys go do your work. There'll be cake, later."

The school had two sessions in the summer; Vera had enrolled both boys in the first one. This year the boys would be going to salmon camp with Greg and his brothers, leaving Vera and Rosie to take care of the dogs. Vera had worried about that – Rosie was still little – but Rosie had told her that William had offered to help. Despite William's frequent poor health, he was a reliable child, and a good companion for Rosie. He would be an asset with the dogs – he seemed to innately understand them, and the dogs, especially his own Bet, responded well to him.

"Okay, Ma," Georgie answered, and Pete mumbled, "Yeah, thanks."

They disappeared up the stairs, and Greg went into the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Coffee's ready," he said. "I'll bring you your mug. Sit down, Vee."

Vera sat, listening to Greg pouring the coffee and gathering the creamer and the sugar. He brought it out on a tray and set it down on the old wooden table they'd inherited from Greg's grandfather.

"Rosie should be home soon," Greg said.

"Yes." Vera stirred sugar in her coffee, then took a sip. "She walked with Matt tonight. William was driven."

"By Marty?" Greg asked. "What's wrong with William? He hates being driven."

They'd once witnessed one of William's infamous meltdowns when Tasya Shugak had insisted, because his head had been hurting, that he been driven to practice. Vera remembered having seen one once before, when William had been a baby, when Bette was still alive. She and Bette had gone out, and had left William in the care of his father. They'd heard him screaming as they pulled up to the cabin. Of course Bette had been terrified, thinking that Billy – she'd called him her Silly Billy – was hurt. Instead they found Kyle at the kitchen table, working, and Billy, prostrate on the floor, shrieking. Vera would never forget the look that passed between Bette and Kyle – Bette, outraged that Kyle had done nothing, had just let the child scream for who knows how long, and Kyle with that curiously flat expression, as if he couldn't even hear the child's screams. When Bette had asked why he hadn't done anything to help Billy, why he hadn't picked him up, or held him, or even asked him what was wrong, Kyle had responded that there was nothing wrong – he was in a temper and he could stay that way. The only way, Kyle had said, to cure the child of this was to let him scream. Bette had taken Billy in her arms and gone to put him to bed, leaving Vera to go home, wondering just what was going on between the two of them. Bette had always insisted she was happy, but how could she have been happy? Vera didn't know. She hadn't known, then, that Bette was dying; she only knew Bette had left her career in Starfleet because of an illness. Surely that alone would have made anyone unhappy.

She said now, "You know he still has headaches. That's probably all it is."

"Why not keep him home, then?" Greg asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He liked William – most people did – but it was simply easier to allow William to do what he wanted to do. Getting William to do something else was simply not worth the effort.

"Here's Rosie," Vera said, smiling, as her youngest came in the door. "Would you like some cake, Rosie? Georgie! Pete! Dessert."

"What's wrong, _malenkaya_?" Greg asked, holding his arms open to Rosie.

"Nothing," Rosie answered, but she climbed into her father's lap anyway.

The boys came thundering down the stairs and Vera disappeared into the kitchen to cut the pieces of the cake and give the children a little bit of milky coffee to drink. She heard Rosie come in behind her.

"Wash your hands," she said to Rosie, as she set the cake tray on the table.

"Yes, Mama," Rosie said. She climbed up onto the stool and washed her hands in the sink.

"Where's William?" Vera asked, cutting the cake into sizeable portions. "Did he already feed Bet?"

"I fed Bet," Rosie said, drying her hands on the towel and shoving the stool back into its corner.

"What was wrong with William?" Vera took the children's mugs – she'd bought three from her cousin Nikki, who had a kiln and sold pottery in Valdez – and poured in warm milk first and then the coffee.

"Uncle Marty told Henry he wasn't feeling well," Rosie said. "William said he was okay. But then Henry tried to get William to talk to him."

"Here, help me," Vera said. "You take the forks and the napkins."

"Yes, Mama," Rosie said. "William had one of his fits."

"Oh?" Vera said. "Which kind of fit?" She hadn't remembered William having seizures.

"You know what I mean," Rosie said. "Like yesterday, at baseball, when he beat up Carl Magnusson. Only this time he tried to beat up Henry."

"I'm sure," Vera said, "he didn't get very far."

"No," Rosie answered. "Henry just held him until Uncle Marty came. Uncle Marty took him home. So I fed Bet."

Vera took the cake tray and the coffees into the living room, and Rosie followed her. She set the food down and then sat down herself, sipping her coffee and watching her family eat, the boys teasing each other and Rosie now. Greg said,

"Is everything all right?" and Vera shook her head slightly.

Rosie seemed to rally a bit, giving the boys back what they were giving her, and Vera felt herself relax slightly. Rosie felt entirely too much, for someone her age – and Vera suspected that that might be partly William's problem as well. She laughed as Pete started describing something that one of the dogs had done, and she and Greg sent the children upstairs to bed and cleaned up the kitchen together.

"You stay down here, Vee," Greg said. "I'll see the boys get into bed."

She poured herself another cup of coffee, and sat down in the kitchen. She wasn't surprised when Rosie came in and sat down across from her.

"William upset you tonight," Vera said.

"He shouted at Henry," Rosie said. "He kept telling Henry not to touch him. It was because," Rosie explained, "Henry put his hands on William's shoulders. William doesn't let anyone touch him, except me, sometimes."

"I'm sure that William was having one of his headaches," Vera answered carefully. "You know he hurt his head pretty bad. It still bothers him."

"He shouted at me, too," Rosie said. "He told me to go away. He said, and Rosie looked down at the floor, "that he hated me."

Vera said quickly, "Rosie, baby, you know that's not true. You and William are best friends. His head was hurting. You know he loses control sometimes. Auntie Tasya tried to explain it to us once, remember? He couldn't have hurt Henry, Henry's too big. And he would never do anything to hurt you."

"Henry says that William's dad is hurting him," Rosie said.

Vera drew in a breath. "Henry said that to you?" she asked.

"No. I followed them out to the air car. Uncle Marty carried William to the car. I heard Henry say it to Uncle Marty. Uncle Marty says there's no evidence."

"Rosie, I'm not even sure you know what that means," Vera said.

Rosie sat up and glared at her mother. "Of course I know what it means. I'm not stupid, Mama. It means that no one has any proof that Mr Riker is hurting William."

"This is not our business," Vera said. She was remembering the look on Kyle Riker's face six years ago when Bette had confronted him. "It's Uncle Marty's. It may even be tribal business. But it's not our business."

"How could it be tribal business?" Rosie asked. "William's not a member of the tribe. He's a sourdough."

Vera was silent. She didn't understand why Kyle Riker wanted the memory of Bette and who Bette was so thoroughly erased from his son's life, but she had no desire to make things any more difficult for Marty and Tasya. So instead she said, "Because they live on tribal land."

"Oh," Rosie said. She picked at a crumb on the table. "Anyway, Uncle Marty's wrong," she said. "There is proof that William's dad is hurting him."

"What proof, Rosie?" Vera wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"You know where the shallows are?" Rosie asked. "We all went down to swim. The boys took their clothes off." She saw her mother's face and rolled her eyes. "They did. I didn't. It's no big deal."

"It is," Vera said, "a very big deal."

"Mama, listen to me," Rosie said seriously. "Please."

"I'm listening, angel," Vera said automatically, and Rosie rolled her eyes again.

"William is bruised and cut on his butt," Rosie said. "It's not the first time. Lots of times he's too sore to move. And yesterday he was in so much pain he almost couldn't pitch. And, Mama, he bleeds, sometimes. I've seen blood on the back of his pants. And sometimes when I go to his house to see if he can play, he's sitting in the back and crying."

"Have you told this to anyone?" Vera asked. She was listening now.

"No," Rosie said. "You, now. Mama, when I asked William where he hurt, he said he hurt inside. He wasn't talking about his head at all."

"Don't tell anyone else," Vera said. "William's father is an important man. And you could be mistaken, Rosie –"

Rosie said, "Mr Riker hurts William. All the time. It's why William gets so mad, and why he beat up Carl."

Vera thought that that was probably true, and once again she was amazed at who her daughter was.

"Rosie," Vera said quietly, and Rosie stopped fidgeting and listened. "You are probably right, but you still might not know everything. Don't tell your father, please. You know Daddy. He'll get mad and go over there, and then there will be trouble. Let me talk to Uncle Marty tomorrow, all right?

"Yes, Mama," Rosie said, and she sounded relieved.

Vera stood up, and hugged Rosie to her, scratching her back and then tickling her sides until Rosie giggled. "Go on, then, silly," she said to Rosie. "Don't worry about William. I'll take care of it. Go on to bed, now. I'll be up in a minute."

"Okay," Rosie said, and, her good nature restored, she bounced out of the kitchen.

Vera washed her coffee cup and put it on the counter to dry. She couldn't get the image of Kyle Riker's face from that time long ago out of her mind.

That next day would play in Vera's mind forever. Waking in the morning beside Greg, Greg took her in his arms and they made love, in the same gentle and comfortable way they'd had for sixteen years, and when Vera slept for a few minutes longer, after, Greg got up and woke the boys and told them to get ready for school. By the time Vera was awake enough to function, Greg was already showered and downstairs making coffee and breakfast for all of them, and Vera took a long bath instead, feeling warm and loved in the way one sometimes did, in a marriage of two people who'd loved each other since the first time they'd seen each other, in seventh grade. She smiled at the thought of Greg in seventh grade, with his round face and braces and a voice that hadn't yet changed, and yet there'd been the sudden clenching of her heart, as he'd sat next to her in old Mrs Janklow's class, as if her heart had recognised him even if her eyes hadn't.

Downstairs they all sat down at the table, all five of them, and Greg had made hotcakes with huckleberries and honey and smoked caribou sausage, and she drank her coffee and listened to the same conversations around the table from her three children that she always heard, the gentle teasing of Rosie, the banter between Georgie and Pete, the talk of dogs, of school, of salmon camp.

The boys, good-natured as always, went off to school without complaint, and Rosie went down with Greg to the kennels. Vera stayed behind and cleaned up the kitchen, and then took her padd out and made her daily lists of things that needed to be done. Vet check for the new litter; shopping; lunch with Auntie Raisa….talk to Marty Shugak. When Greg came back in, it was without Rosie; William had been there to apologise and to feed Bet, and the two of them had decided to go over to Matt's to play, taking Patch and Bet with them. Greg was down to the harbour to meet with his brothers and work on the boat; she had the vet to go to, with the pups; the children were taken care of; all was right in the world….

And then Rosie – beautiful, brilliant Rosie – never came home.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter Fifty-Five

Despite da Costa's telling me that Stoch would wake me in thirty minutes, Stoch had chosen to let me sleep, and I awoke suddenly, with the feeling that I'd forgotten something important, like a staff meeting or something, only to realise that I was still in sickbay – that I wasn't anyone important anymore – I could sleep for an extra hour, in the early evening, and no one would particularly know or care.

Stoch was at the same post da Costa took, and I said, "You were supposed to wake me after thirty minutes, Mr Stoch."

"Sir," Stoch said, as if he were channeling da Costa, even, "I consulted with Lt Fisk, who consulted with Dr Sandoval, and it was decided to let you sleep."

"Dr McBride wanted me to do breathing exercises, and I was supposed to eat," I said, sitting up. I was dizzy again, and I reached out for the night table to steady myself.

"Guinan sent your dinner, sir," Stoch said. "It can be warmed up. And Mr da Costa told me to help you with your breathing, although I think Lt Fisk wanted to check your vitals first."

"Mr Worf is supposed to be here," I said, "and I'm not ready. I haven't eaten, and I need a shower."

"You have thirty minutes before Lt Worf will arrive," Stoch said in the tone of voice that Vulcans usually reserved for humans who were being illogical.

"Have I been relieved of duty, Mr Stoch?" I asked, as I got out of the bed. "Am I no longer the first officer of this ship?"

"Mr Data is Acting First Officer while you are on sick leave," Stoch said.

"Ah," I said. "So my orders are to be ignored, is that it?"

"Sir," Stoch said, coming around to me, as if I needed help standing. "I wasn't aware that you had given orders, sir."

"I don't need your help to stand," I said. "Where's the meal Guinan left me?"

"In the replicator, waiting to be warmed up, sir," Stoch said.

"Then you can accompany me to the shower – " I'd noticed that, true to his word, Djani had placed a dresser against the wall, and I walked over to it and grabbed the clean clothes I needed, "—and you can ask one of the orderlies to warm up my meal for me." I opened the door, and walked towards the head, not caring whether Stoch was trailing behind me. I waited for him in the doorway, while he told one of the orderlies what I needed, and I said, as he squeezed into the head with me, "I gave an order to Mr da Costa, that you should wake me after half an hour. I don't believe that there is anything in regulations that says that the orders of an officer on sick leave should be ignored. I don't particularly care," I continued, as I stepped into the shower and turned the water on, knowing full well that Vulcans hate to get wet, "what Dr Sandoval and Yash Fisk decided. My orders were to wake me after thirty minutes." I finished washing, and stuck my hand out for the towel. "Are we clear on this, Mr Stoch?"

"Aye, sir," Stoch said.

I put my trousers back on, and stepped out of the shower to finish dressing. I ran a comb through my hair, and then piled my laundry into Stoch's arms. "Here," I said. "Make yourself useful and dispose of this."

I left the head, and returned to my room. The captain's standing orders were to not leave me alone even for thirty seconds, and as I sat down at the table that Djani had also brought in for me, I counted the seconds that Stoch was leaving me alone while he dealt with my laundry and my meal.

The door opened, and Lt Fisk entered.

"What's the problem, Commander?" he asked. He had the tricorder in his hand, and he proceeded to take my vitals.

"It's been corrected," I said. "My oxygen levels?"

"Is that information you need, sir?" Yash asked, glancing up at me as he read the results.

"I'm supposed to eat and have breathing exercises, Lieutenant," I said, "before Mr Worf arrives. If my oxygen levels are okay, then I could conceivably forego the breathing exercises."

Stoch entered the room with my meal and set it on the table.

I said, "I thought you weren't supposed to leave me alone, Mr Stoch."

"Lt Fisk was here, sir," Stoch said.

"I was alone for one point two minutes," I said. "I could have done some damage in that time, Mr Stoch."

"Will," Yash said.

"Yes?" I opened the container that Guinan had left me, revealing the vegetable soup she'd promised, as well as the biscuits.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on?" Yash asked.

"I am just trying to establish parameters for myself," I said. "If I'm so crazy that my orders are to be ignored, than clearly I'm too crazy to be left alone. And I believe the Captain made it quite clear to all of you that I was not to be left alone, even for one second. I believe those were his exact words."

"Commander Riker is upset," Stoch said to Yash, "because he left word with Mr da Costa that I was supposed to wake him after thirty minutes. He woke himself, sir, after an hour. I tried – " and Stoch avoided looking at me, "—to explain to the Commander that I'd consulted with you and Dr Sandoval, and you'd decided to allow him to sleep as long as he needed to."

"I'd left _orders_, Mr Stoch, with da Costa," I corrected. "Surely you remember what those are. Even medical crewmen follow orders on this ship, Mr Stoch."

"It was Dr Sandoval's decision to allow you to sleep, Commander," Yash said. "That's an issue to discuss with him, then, not Mr Stoch. Shall I ask him to come in here, sir?"

"No," I said, drinking some of the mint tea that Guinan had left for my "tummy." "Just tell me what my oxygen levels are, so I can know whether I'm doing breathing exercises after I eat."

"That's a medical decision, Mr Riker," Yash said, and he was speaking as Lt Fisk now, not as my friend Yash. "I will report your vitals to Dr Sandoval, and he will make the decision about your breathing."

"Not me?" I said. "I don't get to make the decision about my breathing. And I don't get to make the decision about when I want to be wakened. So then I don't get to be alone for one point two minutes either, right?"

I watched Stoch visibly straighten, and he said, "Aye, sir. It will not happen again, sir."

"Your logic, Mr Riker," Lt Fisk said, "is somewhat faulty here. I will let you know Dr Sandoval's decision."

The soup was good, but I didn't feel like eating. I took a few desultory sips.

Stoch said, "You have upset yourself, sir, and now you don't want to eat."

"You are a master of the obvious, Mr Stoch," I answered. I put the spoon down, and then recovered the container.

"Perhaps," Stoch ventured, "I could teach you a brief meditation, and that would have the advantage of helping your breathing and calming you down."

"That would be a welcome idea, Mr Stoch," I said, pushing away from the table, "except that I don't have the time for that now, do I?"

"Sir," Stoch said.

The door was pushed open again, only this time it was Fisk and Dr Sandoval.

"Sit down, Commander," Sandoval said.

"I don't believe that you outrank me, Doctor," I said, but I sat anyway.

"I've spoken to Dr McBride, as he requested, to let him know what your oxygen levels were." It was clear that Sandoval was going to ignore me. "They have improved slightly, from what they were in Dr McBride's office, but not enough for either of us to feel comfortable with them. The fact that you are currently agitated is not helping your breathing, Commander."

"I wouldn't be _agitated_," I said, "if I'd been wakened when I'd asked to be."

"And it was my medical decision to give you the extra sleep you needed," Sandoval responded, "which, of course, helped to improve your oxygen levels. We can either work together, Mr Riker, or we can be at odds – but I must remind you, sir, that you do not make the decisions regarding your medical treatment in this facility. I am working very closely with both Drs Crusher and McBride – and every decision I make regarding your care and treatment is in consultation with both of them. Do you understand, sir?"

I was outnumbered, three to one, each one of them having decided, clearly, that I was some sort of troublesome child who needed to be publicly scolded in order to be brought into line.

"What I understand, Lt Sandoval," I said, "is that I am tired of being treated as if I do not matter. As if my concerns do not matter. I may be a patient in this _facility_," I said, "but on this ship I am outranked by only one officer, and that is the captain. I should not have my concerns ignored. I should not have my orders – as infrequent as they have been, gentlemen – ignored. I should be treated with the respect I am due as First Officer of this ship. And I should not," I said, "have to remind any one of you of this."

Stoch said quietly, "Sir. Mr Worf will not mind waiting a few minutes longer while you finish your breathing program. Lt Fisk will explain the situation to him. Mr da Costa has explained Counsellor Troi's basic session to me, and I will talk you through it. And I can ask that your meal be heated up again, and you can eat while Mr Worf is sitting with you. I doubt that Mr Worf will take offense, sir."

And that was the issue, wasn't it? Of all the people for McBride to choose to come to sit with me, he would have to choose Worf, who'd been, as he'd said, "haunting" sickbay, asking to see me, determined, as Jean-Luc had told me, once, that he had to protect me from the someone or something that had caused me to be ill. Worf was my friend – perhaps one of the closest friends I had on the ship, outside of Deanna - and yet our friendship was based on our shared belief in a code of behaviour; Worf in the way of the warrior, myself in duty, and in honour.

I understood Worf, now. When he'd hurt himself, when he'd been paralysed, he'd wanted me to participate in the ceremony that would end his life, as a warrior who can no longer fight is useless – less than useless – a burden on his family, and on society. I didn't understand and so I'd been adamantly opposed to helping him, even concocting the idea that it would be his young son who would have to participate, just because I was so convinced that living was the point.

Except it wasn't, was it? Worf knew that. I knew it, now. I'd tried to do the right thing – I'd tried to die with honour, the way Worf had wanted to – like Brutus, in Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_, one of the few plays of Jean-Luc's that I truly understood. Because what was I now? I was useless, a burden; a burden to Jean-Luc, who needed to be given a day off from me – a burden to the staff in sickbay, who had other patients – patients they could heal – to deal with – and a burden to Starfleet, when someone finally leaked word that I was permanently unfit for duty. Deanna had tried to convince me that this illness could be managed, that I could learn to function again, but she didn't understand any more than I had when Worf had asked me to bring him his ceremonial dagger. I would be the officer who couldn't ever be fully trusted, because who could foretell which future event would be the one to send me back into this hell of flashbacks and night terrors and nightmares? It was like taking Reg Barclay and making him a command officer. How could you trust a command officer who was afraid of his own fucking shadow? How could you trust a command officer who was hearing things, and seeing things, and smelling things, for fuck's sake, that weren't even there?

Worf would see me in this condition. He would be polite, of course. He might even maintain enough control to be friendly, for the hour or so that he was here. But I would disgust him. I was a broken warrior, who was a disgrace to the ship because I was clinging to a useless life. Maybe, I thought, I could convince Worf to bring _me_ a ceremonial dagger.


	56. Interlude: Fourteen

Interlude: Fourteen

Picard was grateful to be distracted by the business of the ship, and so for the first half of his shift, he was on and off the bridge, working in his ready room, and preparing to have lunch with the small group of diplomats they were ferrying. After lunch, however, was another story; there was the ever-present deluge of paperwork and there was a briefing with Mr Data. It was the perfect time for him to do what McBride had suggested, which was to go to the gym and then to the holodeck. Still, his mind was on Will, who would be on his way to his first CBT session with Troi. He'd glanced at the schedule and seen that Deanna had intended for Will to do goal-setting – that ought to go over well, he thought wryly. Although it wasn't anything Troi couldn't handle; she'd had, he reflected, Mr Riker's number for years.

He perused his messages, still wondering when he would get an update request on Will's status from Nechayev, and then he remembered that there was, in fact, one meeting he should have first, before he could freely go to the gym and the holodeck, as McBride had planned.

"Lt Worf," Picard said. "My ready room."

"Sir," Worf responded.

Picard stood up from the chair and fetched a mug of Earl Grey from the replicator, thinking about how he wanted to approach the subject of Will – and Will's illness – to Worf. He knew that Klingons approached illness as a spiritual matter, rather than a physical one – and while he understood the concept that Will's brain had physically been changed by his injuries and his illness, it was the spiritual illness – Will's depression, his suicidal ideation, his feelings of shame and inadequacy – that were concepts which Worf would intrinsically understand. After all, Worf had dealt with this aspect of Will's illness in himself, on more than one occasion.

The door chimed, and Picard said, "Come."

Worf entered the room, his face set, as if he expected a reprimand or an unpleasant task. Inwardly, Picard shook his head. He'd known Worf longer than most of the others on the _Enterprise_ (except, of course, for Beverly), as he'd met Worf when he was a very young man at the Academy. Still, after all these years, Worf always approached a meeting with the captain as if there were some failing which needed to be addressed.

"Sir," Worf said, now.

"At ease, Mr Worf," Picard said mildly, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Would you like something to drink? I've a favour to ask of you."

Immediately Worf relaxed. "No, sir," he said. Then he asked, somewhat suspiciously, "What kind of favour, sir?"

Picard resisted smiling. Favours, he knew, were a serious business; Worf would need to know whether this favour the captain was requesting would be adding to the captain's honour, or to his own.

"Sit down, Mr Worf," Picard said, sipping his tea.

"Sir," Worf said. He sat.

"How much, Mr Worf," Picard said, slowly, "do you know about Commander Riker's illness?"

Worf blinked, and then he tried to compose himself. "I thought Commander Riker had suffered an injury," he replied, finally.

"Yes," Picard said. He waited.

Worf was silent for a moment and then he said, "I have heard different rumours, sir, regarding the commander's accident in his quarters. And I have heard that Commander Riker has nearly died, twice. Sir."

"And what might you have heard about Commander Riker's accident?" Picard asked.

"Captain," Worf said, uncomfortably. He shifted a bit in his seat, and then stilled himself. "I must advise you that these are only rumours."

"Yes, Mr Worf," Picard said patiently. "I do understand that. I'd like to know what you have heard."

Worf sighed and then covered it with a cough. "One rumour is that Commander Riker was attacked, sir, by some unknown entity."

Picard kept his face neutral. "You are my Chief of Security, Mr Worf," he said in a reasonable voice. "How likely is that to have happened?"

"There is some small precedence for it," Worf said. "We were kidnapped and injured by aliens, once."

"Yes," Picard agreed. "Once in seven years." He took another sip. "And the other rumour?"

"Commander Riker tried to take his own life," Worf said.

"Does the rumour say how Mr Riker tried to do this?" Picard asked.

"One version says he used a phaser," Worf answered. "However, there has been no phaser activity on the ship."

"And?"

"He used a dagger of some sort," Worf said. "There was a rumour that his quarters had to be cleaned of a copious amount of blood."

"What are your thoughts, Mr Worf?" Picard asked. "You have been requesting to see him, have you not?"

"Sir," Worf said. "I would like to think Commander Riker is my friend."

"And indeed he is, Worf," Picard said, setting down his mug. "Your thoughts, then, on whether your friend would try to take his own life?"

"Sir," Worf said, and then he was silent.

Picard waited, his hands steepled in front of him.

"In the last month or so," Worf began, "or perhaps even longer, Commander Riker has suffered a series of holodeck injuries. Some of those injuries were serious. When I questioned him about them, he laughed them off, saying he was just running a vigourous program. That was the word he used, Captain."

"Go on," Picard encouraged.

"I thought that the injuries, and his account of them, were out of character," Worf said. "I mentioned this to both Counsellor Troi and Dr Crusher."

"Yes, you did," Picard agreed. "And I am glad that you did. Your mentioning this to Dr Crusher is one of the reasons Dr Crusher brought the matter to me."

"Ah," Worf said.

"And your analysis, Mr Worf?" Picard asked.

"It seemed to me that there was a possibility that Commander Riker was injuring himself deliberately, even if he might have been unaware of it," Worf answered. "He was not himself. He was anxious. He was irritable. He even, sir, yelled at me. I don't believe Commander Riker has ever yelled at me before." Worf paused, and then he said, "He didn't seem to be sleeping. I did mention this to Dr Crusher."

Picard remained silent, giving Worf the space he needed to say what he didn't want to say.

"Captain," Worf said, finally. "It fits the pattern of a man who is depressed and suicidal."

"Indeed it did," Picard confirmed. "Dr Crusher brought the matter to me, and I confronted Mr Riker about it. He denied it, of course, but it was quite clear that he was in trouble. Dr Crusher began to investigate the matter, with the help of Counsellor Troi, when the incident in Ten Forward occurred."

"Yes, sir," Worf said. "Commander LaForge said that Mr Riker seemed fine, and then he got up and ran out of Ten Forward, as if he had seen something. I do not understand this."

Picard said gently, "Commander Riker had seen something – or, perhaps more accurately, he'd heard and smelled something. He had a flashback."

"You are saying that Commander Riker attempted suicide," Worf said.

"Yes," Picard answered. He stood up and walked over to the window.

"Commander Riker in the past has been adamantly opposed to suicide," Worf said in a neutral tone.

"Perhaps because he knows that it rarely works," Picard said. "This is not the first time, you see."

"How could - ?"

"It's a long and complicated story, Mr Worf," Picard answered, turning around. "Because I'd like you to do something for me – and for William – I will attempt to give you the shortened version. It has to do with one subject you're very familiar with, Mr Worf. It has to do with fathers, and the way a father's behaviour can destroy his son."

"Captain," Worf said, "I would do anything for you, or for Commander Riker. I think, sir, that you know this."

"I do," Picard answered, and then he said, "You remember Will's father?"

Worf grimaced, slightly. "I do," he said. "An old man who challenged his son to combat. It was," Worf said, "embarrassing."

"Yes, well," Picard said, trying not to let the phrase "old man" sting, "it was an interesting cover for his real agenda." He sighed. "Guinan called me from Ten Forward, after Commander Riker ran out. She was convinced that he was in danger. I left immediately for his quarters, and commed Dr Crusher for a medical team. I got there first, and found him on the floor of the head, bleeding out. He'd used a sherd from the mirror to open up his arms and his neck."

"He wanted to die, then," Worf said.

"Yes. He wanted to die. It's only because Guinan is who she is that we were able to save him. His heart stopped once, that night." Picard paused, remembering the chill of the room, and Q's offer, and the kindness of both Beverly and Deanna. "This illness he has, which caused him to attempt suicide, it's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. At Starbase 515 we picked up the doctor who specialises in treating this illness, Dr McBride. As it happens, Counsellor Troi had already proposed a project involving the treatment of this disorder to me and Starfleet before we realised how severely Commander Riker was suffering from this illness."

"You have been eating with the doctor and Commander Riker's team in Ten Forward," Worf said.

"Yes. The treatment is involved – and William's illness is severe. It's necessary, for all of us, to debrief."

"What do you need me to do, Captain?" Worf asked.

"You know that Commander Riker's mother died when he was two," Picard said, sitting back down. His tea was cold, but he sipped it anyway. When Worf nodded, he continued, "Kyle Riker's version of this story is that he was devastated by the loss of his wife, and that he didn't know how to take care of a child – particularly a child like Will. He was often gone, leaving William by himself, and he finally abandoned Will when he was fifteen."

"Yes," Worf said. "He has told me this."

"Commander Riker's mother was a Starfleet officer," Picard said. "She became ill on an away team mission, and she went home to her family in Alaska to die. When she died, William was two, almost three years old. He witnessed her final hemorrhage, the one that led to her death. Dr McBride believes that witnessing that event was the onset of this disorder."

"I witnessed the deaths of my parents when I was that age," Worf said.

"And there is a reason why you and he are good friends," Picard answered. "You share many of the same characteristics – many of the same tendencies. You have been suicidal as well, more than once."

"It is the way of the warrior," Worf began, and Picard said,

"Indeed."

Worf was silent.

"I'm sorry, Mr Worf," Picard said, eventually. "I am finding this difficult to discuss."

"I understand, sir," Worf said, although Picard was sure he didn't.

"From the time William was about three years old, until the time his father abandoned him, when he was fifteen, William's father terrorised him. He severely abused him. William's life, as a child, was one of pain and torment. He was repeatedly hospitalised with severe injuries and broken bones. When he was seven, he attempted suicide. He was hosptialised, but he was subject to abuse in the hospital as well. His father continued to do unimaginable things to control and demean him. For most of his life, Commander Riker suppressed these memories. He remembered very little of his childhood. Something happened, two months ago, to trigger the memories. The disorder, which was dormant, became active. He has been suffering from flashbacks, night terrors, panic attacks, nightmares…." Picard trailed off. Then he said, "His suffering is acute."

"You are treating him here," Worf said quietly.

"Yes." Picard did not elaborate.

"He still wants to die."

"Yes," Picard said. "He still wants to die."

"The actions of the father dishonour the son," Worf said.

"What does a son do, when his father is a monster?" Picard asked.

"They said that my father was a monster," Worf answered. "Although I know now that he was not."

"Commander Riker's father is not the same," Picard said. "His father is a destroyer of children. And he is still out there, working for the Federation."

"What would you like me to do, Captain?" Worf asked. "I would gladly hunt down this man and rid Commander Riker of him."

Picard smiled. "As much as I would want to give you a shuttle and a phaser, Mr Worf, and set you to him, I'm afraid it wouldn't help your friend at all. The damage has already been done." He stood up, and walked back to the replicator, ordering another mug of tea. "Dr McBride believes that Commander Riker is well enough now to have contact – limited contact – with some of his friends. You have been asking to see him, so would you be available this evening, if that is something that you would still want to do?"

"Yes," Worf said. "I will be available."

"Mr Riker has been scheduled for a recreation period between 1900 and 2100 hours," Picard said. "Anytime during then, Mr Worf."

"Sir. I can hardly see how that would be construed as a favour," Worf replied.

Picard said, "Nevertheless, Mr Worf, it is. A personal favour, to me."

Worf rose. "Aye, sir," he said.

Picard said, as Worf turned to leave, "Mr Worf."

"Sir?" Worf turned around.

"If he asks you to help him, what will you say?"

Worf hesitated.

"He will say that he is broken," Picard said. "He could make a very convincing argument that he is a burden to this ship. That he is without honour."

"I could, sir," Worf said, "say to him what he said to me."

Picard sighed. "Would he believe you?" he asked.

"I do not think he would, Captain," Worf replied. He thought for a moment and then he said, "I will be prepared, sir. Do not worry."

"Good. Thank you, Mr Worf."

"Aye, sir," Worf said.

Worf left. Picard remained at his desk, staring at the mug of now-cold tea. He wondered if Will had already left Deanna's office for McBride's, and if McBride had explained to Will that he would not be available today. He knew what Will's reaction was likely to be. McBride had said he would handle the information, and Will's reaction to it, therapeutically – and he'd agreed – but he'd also promised Will that they would be open with each other….Well. There was nothing to be done for it now. He would have to trust that McBride knew what he was doing, and that Will would somehow be made to understand. It was ironic, he thought, that he would find himself having to trust McBride in the same way as Will. He'd never thought that trust was an issue for himself - yet apparently it was.

He disposed of his mug and headed for the gym.


	57. Interlude: Fifteen

Interlude: Fifteen

Worf had had years of training, both as a Klingon and a Starfleet officer, and yet it took all of his years of training not to react to the appearance of his friend Commander Riker. The commander was sitting at a small table in one of the few private rooms in sickbay, which had clearly been turned into his residence – there was a dresser, the table and two chairs, a chair by the bed, and two beds placed together –and even though the hour was late, it was apparent that the commander was still having his meal. Or pretending to have his meal, Worf thought, watching the commander move a spoon around in what looked like a bowl of soup. As the commander rose to greet him, Worf noticed that the clothes he was wearing - the dark blue shirt he usually wore off-duty and a pair of grey trousers – were hanging off him. His face was gaunt, his fair skin paler than usual, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. He looked, Worf thought in sudden panic, as if he were dying.

He could see immediately that the commander was anxious, and so he made sure his features were set and then he smiled in a way he hoped the commander would believe was normal.

"Am I disturbing your meal, Commander?" he asked.

"No," Will said quickly, "no, I'm done. Mr Stoch?"

The Vulcan crewman, who'd been standing against the wall by a night table, said, "I'll take it, sir," and moved to take the tray.

"Do you know Lt Worf, Mr Stoch?" Will asked. "This," he said to Worf, "is my nighttime minder, Mr Stoch."

"Crewman," Worf said, not knowing how to respond. What was a nighttime minder?

"Lieutenant," the Vulcan said. "Commander Riker has been looking forward to seeing you, sir. Would you like something to drink?"

This, Worf thought, is surreal. "No," Worf said, "thank you."

The Vulcan left, pulling the door closed behind him, and Will sat back down at the table. Worf noticed that Stoch had left a half-drunk cup of tea on the table.

"Sit, Worf," Will said, indicating the larger chair by the bed.

"Sir," Worf said automatically, and sat.

Will turned his chair to face Worf at an angle, and he fiddled with his cup. "I'd rather," he said, "you didn't call me 'sir.' I'm on sick leave, after all."

"How are you feeling?" Worf didn't know what he could – or should – say. He'd listened, at first politely, and then with concern, to the captain, as the captain had explained Will's condition. He'd noted what the captain wasn't saying, and that the captain was calling him "William," for example, something Worf had only heard him use on rare occasions. He'd wondered at the emotion the captain was clearly suppressing in discussing Commander Riker's illness, and had been startled when the captain had confessed that he was finding it difficult to discuss. He'd thought he understood the favour Captain Picard had asked of him; that the commander was suicidal, and would ask him for help, which he should somehow find a reason to deny. But in his mind he'd pictured the Will Riker he knew, a man as large as he was, full of mischief and laughter on the surface, but a man who took no prisoners when the occasion warranted it.

He could see, now, why the captain had called it an illness. William Riker was clearly ill. He looked as if he were starving, slowly, to death. Worf was sure that every rib was showing on his chest, every knob of his backbone. Even his arms seemed smaller somehow, underneath the too wide and too long sleeves of his shirt. He wondered, briefly, why the commander bothered to be suicidal. He was obviously already dying. What would be the need to hasten the process? He should be, Worf thought, finalising his affairs and saying his goodbyes.

And then he looked into the commander's eyes, as he waited for Will's response to his question, and he saw what Captain Picard had tried to tell him. Will Riker was in pain, terrible pain; the kind of pain for which death was a welcome relief. And then he knew the cost of the favour Captain Picard had requested.

"I'm okay," Will answered quietly. "Some days are better than others. Today hasn't been one of those days."

What in the name of Kahless could Worf say to this man? He remembered what Will had said to him, how embittered he'd felt at Will's seeming rejection of their friendship, but how he'd realised that his duty as a father was more important than his duty as a warrior. William Riker was in as much pain as he had been – more, perhaps – and yet he had bound himself to the captain's demand that he turn Will down.

"You have," Worf said grimly, "lost weight." There was no point, Worf thought, in pretending otherwise.

Will looked down at himself in surprise. "I guess," he said. "People keep telling me that."

"Perhaps," Worf suggested ironically, "it might be better to find clothes that fit."

He watched Will's eyes widen, and then the familiar grin appeared. "I look that bad?" he asked. "Don't beat about the bush, Mr Worf."

"Commander," Worf said, "you look that bad."

Will laughed. "I've a reputation for throwing things," he said, 'so they've probably been too afraid to tell me."

"I had heard that," Worf admitted. "I didn't believe it was true, though. I couldn't see how Chief O'Brien could have come across that particular tale, seeing as how he has no connection at all to sickbay."

Will shrugged. "It's true," he said. "Guinan told me it was all over Ten Forward. I doubt it was Miles who started the story, though."

Worf said incredulously, "You threw something at Captain Picard?"

Again, Will grinned. "I've felt like it, a couple of times," he answered, "but no, he was just there. He watched me trash Beverly's office – and told Mr da Costa to stand down when he came charging in to stop me. Then he made da Costa clean it up."

"You trashed Dr Crusher's office," Worf repeated.

"I did," Will answered, and it seemed to Worf that he was curiously pleased with this, as if he were Alexander's age.

"You are a braver man than I have ever given you credit for," Worf said. "When I was in here, she was quite imposing."

"Oh, she's gotten me back," Will said. "She's in charge of the hypo sprays, after all."

Worf watched Will fidget with the cup. "You are in pain," he said, finally.

Will's demeanor completely changed. His eyes went blank, and his face shut down. He looked down at the floor, and Worf saw for the first time the tremor in his hands.

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes…" His voice trailed off.

Worf thought about what the captain had told him. Then he said, "Would you show me what you did?"

Will glanced up, surprised. "You want to see my arms?" he asked. "The scar's pretty well faded on my neck because I was already bleeding heavily when I cut myself there. It wasn't very deep." He rolled up his sleeves and showed the still livid vertical scars running down both arms. "I sliced the tendons," he said. "I have PT, in the mornings with Jai Patel, to try to repair the damage."

Worf said, "Why didn't you just use your phaser?"

"No one's ever asked me that before," Will said. "No one talks about it."

"I would like to talk about it," Worf said, "if I have your permission, Commander."

"Why are you still calling me 'Commander'?" Will asked. "Just call me Will, Worf. Please."

Worf had the feeling he knew why Will didn't want his rank acknowledged. "Will," he agreed.

"Why didn't I use my phaser?" Will repeated. He shrugged. "I don't know. I was in the middle of a flashback. I don't remember much. I had lunch with Geordi, and Geordi had hurt his hand. He banged it, accidentally, on the table and it started to bleed. I saw the blood, and then I was in my quarters, in the head, smelling blood, and cinnamon, and silver polish. I just wanted," Will said, "to make everything stop. I don't remember breaking the mirror. I do remember thinking how easy it was, to make those cuts. I'd done it before, you see. Cut someone."

Worf had the feeling that Will was receding, somehow. "What," he asked, "is a flashback?"

Will seemed to come back. "You've had them," he said. "About Khitomer. You think you're there, back to wherever it was. You see things as they were, hear things. With me, I smell things first, I think. They're not memories, but they are. Like waking dreams. It's hard, Worf, to come out of one once you're in. The therapy I'm in – it's to help me stop having the flashbacks."

Worf was silent. "Is it helping?" he asked.

"There's just so many," Will said, and Worf remembered that the captain had said Will would say he was broken. That was the way he sounded: broken.

"I am still your friend," Worf said. He knew what Will was feeling. Shame. Defeat. Humiliation. How could you help a man who hated himself so much that he was willing himself to die?

"Then help me," Will said, just as the captain had said he would.

"You are not Klingon," Worf said. "You cannot perform the Hegh'bat."

"No," Will said. "I know that." He was silent, looking at the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were filled with pain. "There must be something you can do. I'm never alone." He shrugged. "Jean-Luc doesn't want to let me go."

Worf saw the two beds pushed together out of the corner of his eye, and heard the captain's apology, and his confession that it was difficult for him "to discuss." He understood the favour, now.

"You told me," Worf said, "that I should think about how my death would affect my friends, and the people who loved me. You told me that my work was not finished. I could say the same to you. Will."

Will put his face in his hands. "They would be better off without me," he said. "He would, be better off without me."

"He," Worf said, "doesn't think so."

"Please," Will said. "I've never asked you for anything, Worf."

"You once said to me that your village, where you grew up, was Russian and Aleut," Worf said. "That the Aleut are tribal people."

"Yes," Will said, confused.

"But you are not," Worf continued.

Will said, "No. Riker is Dutch."

"And your mother?" Worf asked.

"I don't know," Will said, and he seemed suddenly exhausted.

"I looked her up," Worf said. "Captain Picard told me she was a Starfleet officer. She was a lieutenant commander, when she died."

"I don't understand," Will said. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Commander," Worf said, "Will. You asked me to help you. That is what I am trying to do."

"Okay, Worf," Will answered, slumping in the chair.

Worf could see that the tremor had now extended itself so that his whole body was shaking slightly. "Her name was Elizaveta Irina Christianssen Riker. She was Russian," Worf said, "and Aleut. Tribal." He paused, and then he said, "As are you. Tribal. Perhaps it is why, Commander, you understand my people. We have much in common."

"But not enough to help me with the Hegh'bat," Will said.

"No," Worf answered. "But I can help you with the tIqtay."

Will looked up. "The heart ceremony? You're making that up."

Worf glared at him. "I do not," he said, "make things up."

"I'm tired, Worf," Will said. "I'm tired, and I'm in pain. Every waking moment I'm in pain. I see things and hear things and smell things that aren't there. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't drink. There is nothing for me anymore. I just want it all to stop."

Worf stood up, and he walked over to where Will was sitting. He placed his hands on his friend's shoulders, and, for a moment, Will's shaking stopped.

"You have the heart sickness," Worf said. "I do not know how else to translate it. It is old. The cure for it is old. It is nearly forgotten, because wars are not often fought the way they used to be. A starship explodes, and there are no survivors. The warriors die with honour. But on the field of battle the victors would go home to live to fight again. Some of them would have this sickness. It was seen," Worf said, "as the mark of a great warrior, a man who defeated his enemies yet suffered because of their pain and loss and dishonour. A cleansing would be performed. A vision would be sought. The warrior gave over the pain and was healed. The tIqtay."

Will said, "McBride – the doctor we picked up at SB 515 – he promised to heal me. I'm supposed to have eight weeks of treatment. And then I'll be healed."

"You do not believe that to be the case?"

"That's not the point," Will said, shrugging out from underneath Worf's hands. "Who could ever trust me again? All it would take is another – _trauma_ – " and he said this with such bitterness that Worf was shocked, "—and I'll be right back here again."

"You do not know that to be true," Worf said.

"Don't I?" Will asked. "Would you be willing to trust to that, in a battlefield situation?" When Worf did not respond, he said, "Help me."

"I will ask your doctor if we can perform the tIqtay," Worf responded.

Will stood up, and he walked away from Worf. "Jean-Luc told you to refuse to help me," he said. "I wondered if he would."

"Commander, I _am_ trying to help you," Worf replied.

"No, Worf," Will answered. "You're keeping your word to your captain. I understand."

"Will – " Worf remembered how he felt, when Will had turned him down. He could see the defeat etched into Will's face. "I am sorry, sir," he said.

"Yeah. What the hell." Will turned around. "I'm tired, Worf. Thanks for coming."

It was a dismissal, and Worf knew it. He had kept his word to the captain, but at what cost?

"Good night, Commander," he said as he left the room.


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter Fifty-Eight

William had expected at least a spanking from his father when he got home, if not something worse; instead, his father listened with half an ear as Mr S explained what had happened at judo practise and then said in a disinterested voice,

"Perhaps you should just concentrate on anbo-jyutsu for now, Billy."

William didn't know what his father meant, so he nodded and whispered his agreement, and then he allowed Mrs S to take him upstairs and put him to bed. Mrs S didn't say anything, even though she must have seen that the bed linens had been changed in the middle of the week, and William even consented to her sitting beside him and rubbing his back. She'd given him his medication, which always made him sleepy and, despite what it was supposed to do, vaguely anxious. She sat with him for about twenty minutes and then kissed him on the top of his head and left.

He waited until he heard her go down the stairs and then he slipped out of his bed. He grabbed his pillow and padded down the hall to his father's room. He never wanted to sleep in his own bed again.

William sat at the kitchen table, moving the spoon around in his bowl of oatmeal. Mrs S had made it just the way he liked it, using the special oatmeal that her daughter Lena had brought back from Ireland, adding honey and brown sugar and raisins to it and a little bit of heavy cream, but William felt fuzzy and disoriented from the medication, and he still felt sore inside.

"What's the matter, William?" Mrs S asked, and if she'd ever felt impatient with the child, with his mood swings and his rages and his refusal to eat, she never let him know.

"My stomach hurts," William said, and he put the spoon down.

Mrs Shugak sat down beside him, and cupped his face so he had to look at her. "What is it, William?" she asked. "What happened, to upset you so?"

William closed his eyes for a moment, and allowed Mrs S to pull him to her and hold him. Then he shrugged out of her arms and said, "I guess you were right. I don't feel well. I must be coming down with something."

Mrs S sighed when he wriggled away, and she stood up and took his bowl of oatmeal. "Are you still upset about the cat, William?" she asked.

It took William a moment to remember the story he'd told her about the cat; that his father had taken the cat to a shelter in Valdez on his way to his meeting.

"No," he said. "My stomach just hurts."

"Your stomach always hurts," Mrs S said, but it was just an observation. "You have an appointment with the doctor at three today. Mr S and I will take you. Your father's already left for his meeting."

"Okay." William got down from the table, and headed to the door.

"Where," Mrs S asked, "do you think you're going, William, if you don't feel well?"

William paused by the door, fighting the urge just to run. "I have to go feed Bet," he said. "I didn't last night. Rosie will be mad."

"And then you come home, William," Mrs S said. "If you're not feeling well, you should be in bed. And," she continued, "that Rosie is never mad at you, William." She smiled, remembering when both Rosie and William had been toddlers, playing on Elizaveta's kitchen floor.

"Yes, ma'am," William said, and darted out the door.

Rosie wasn't mad at him; of course she wasn't mad at him; by the time Rosie and her dad showed up, William had fed half the dogs and had let Patch and Bet out to romp. She gave him her Rosie-grin when she saw him and if Greg Kalugin was surprised when he saw William give his daughter a quick hug before darting into the kennel to handle the new pups, he didn't let it show.

Rosie's father shooed them away, so he and Rosie took the dogs and ran down the path to Matt's house. The sun was bright and would remain so for another fifteen hours or so; plenty to do on a warm summer's day, three kids and three dogs in the bush. They ended up at the shallows, just William and Rosie, as Matt's mother had called him home.

"D'you wanna swim?" Rosie asked, dangling one foot in the cold water.

William shook his head. "No," he said. He didn't want to take his shorts off in front of Rosie and he knew Mrs S would be mad at him if he got his clothes wet. He sat down beside Rosie and trailed a stick in the water.

Rosie said, "I told my mom."

William didn't say anything, just watched the fingerlings drift by on the current. The dogs were tussling behind him; a raven was calling overhead.

"Henry wants to go before the council," Rosie added.

"I'm not tribal," William said.

"Mom says you live on tribal land," Rosie answered. "Maybe your mom was tribal. She was from here, right?"

William nodded. "Yes," he said. "The cabin was hers, I think."

"There you go," Rosie said. She threw a rock in the water. "Mom's going to talk to Uncle Marty. He'll talk to Auntie Raisa. They'll know what to do."

William started to shake. "You don't know anything," he said.

Rosie took William's hand, and he let her. "I do, Will," she said. "I know he hurts you."

"Only when I'm bad," William said. He liked the feeling of Rosie's hand in his.

Rosie said, and she sounded like a grownup, "William, you are never bad."

"Yes, I am," William whispered. "You don't know what I've done."

Rosie was silent. She couldn't imagine anything that William could have done, except to forget to feed Bet at night for two nights in a row. She shrugged, and William let go of her hand. "I don't believe you," she said stubbornly, and William sighed.

"Mrs S wanted me home after I fed Bet," he said. "She's taking me to the doctor, 'cause of yesterday."

"Henry shouldn't have touched you," Rosie said loyally. "You told him not to."

"My father didn't care," William said, wonderingly. "He just said maybe I shouldn't take judo anymore."

"My mom's worried about you."

Rosie didn't say that she was worried; William already knew. He wasn't sure why his father didn't care that he'd tried to beat up Henry. He thought perhaps the fact that his father didn't care was scarier than his father taking the belt to him again.

"Will you be in trouble for not going home right away?" Rosie asked.

"No," William replied. "He's in Valdez again today."

"Maybe we should go back anyway," Rosie said.

"Okay," William said. "Mrs S will just make me go to bed until it's time to go to the doctor. You could stay, you know."

"I'll walk you home," Rosie offered. "Then I'll take Bet back with me. Will you be at practise today?"

"I don't know," William said. "I guess it depends on what the doctor says."

"You don't seem sick to me." Rosie threw a stick to Patch, who just looked at her and wagged his tail.

"Sled dogs don't fetch, silly," William said.

"I know," Rosie answered. "I'd like to see him do it once."

They walked back slowly. "It's hard to explain," William said. "It hurts, I just can't tell where."

"On your butt?" Rosie asked bluntly. She didn't look at William.

William said, "My butt doesn't hurt anymore. The bruises are almost gone."

"Then where?"

William shrugged. "Inside somewhere," he answered. "Sometimes I feel hot, like maybe I have a fever. And sometimes I'm just so tired I can't stand."

"Like the 'flu?" Rosie asked.

They were almost at William's cabin. "No," William said. "Not like the 'flu at all." The 'flu had happened suddenly, when William was in kindergarten. Lots of people had gotten sick, before the Federation had arrived with vaccines. William just remembered feeling hot and achy.

William stopped at the kitchen door and knelt down to hug Bet. When he stood up, he saw out of the corner of his eye the pile of rocks marking where he'd buried Mittens. He looked at Rosie, who was watching him silently with her serious black eyes.

"Rosie," he said. He stopped, because he was only seven, almost eight, and there didn't seem to be any words for what he wanted to say.

"I'll see you at practise, Will," Rosie said, grinning suddenly. "C'mon, Patch; Bet-girl."

William watched Rosie take off down the path, the dogs trotting after her. He turned around and opened the kitchen door.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter Fifty-Nine

After Worf left there didn't seem to be any purpose to doing anything, so I took my pyjamas from the dresser and changed into them and put myself to bed. It probably wasn't even twenty-one hundred yet, but with Jean-Luc not coming and my day officially done, there wasn't much else to do, except hope that at some point I could fall asleep. Stoch didn't say anything when he came back in, just wordlessly gave me the grape-flavoured fluid replacement, and then he took up da Costa's post on the other side of the night table. I could hear him breathing and I wondered if he planned on simply standing there all night. It's one thing to give up privacy because you're sharing a bed with someone, but I was, I suppose, well enough now to regard the necessity of Stoch as an intrusion. I was angry and upset, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do; I was tired and yet too keyed up, I guess, to sleep. The solution to this was to simply reach down and jack off, but that was not going to happen with Stoch in the room. Consequently I just lay there, wondering how the hell I was ever going to sleep this night, the argument with Worf replaying in my mind, but not so thoroughly that it had eradicated the session I'd had with McBride.

I wasn't foolish or desperate enough to think that Worf could have offered me a solution to my situation in my first meeting with him, but I'd hoped he'd have understood, seeing me, seeing the condition I was in, seeing how useless I was now. I'd seen the shock in his eyes when he'd walked in, so much like the first time Jean-Luc had seen my arms. Instead he'd offered me that made-up bullshit about some ceremony that was supposed to connect with my tribal genes from my mother – whatever.

I wished that there was just some stupid hypo spray that someone – anyone – could give me that would just knock me the fuck out.

"Commander," Stoch said quietly. "I could teach you that meditation now. It would help you, sir."

I didn't dignify that with an answer. I heard the door open, and Yash Fisk say, "Is he asleep already?"

Maybe if I just lay here they'd all leave me the fuck alone, but then I realised how stupid and childish that was.

"I'm trying to sleep," I said.

"I've got your medication for you, sir," Yash said, "and Dr Sandoval wanted me to check your vitals again."

Fuck Sandoval, I thought, but I sat up. I'd left the lights on at ten percent, and Yash said now, "Lights, thirty percent," and I blinked against the brightness. "Here you go, sir," Yash said, handing me the medication and a cup of water.

I swallowed the meds and placed the water on the night table. I waited while Yash took my vitals, and then I started to get back into bed when I thought I heard Dr McBride's voice out in sickbay.

"What's he here for?" I asked.

"I don't know," Yash said. He was recording the data. "I'll find out for you." He turned to leave and then he turned back around and said, "Will?"

"Yeah?" I said. I was picking apart a piece of the blanket.

"I'm sorry, if you felt I shut you down, before. As your nurse, my responsibility is to carry out your doctors' orders – but I'm also supposed to be your advocate, your go-between, between you and your doctor. I don't want you to think I don't take that seriously – and I don't want you to feel as if I won't listen to your concerns."

"It's all right," I said.

"Will," Yash said, and I was surprised at the intensity in his voice, "no, it's not all right. You had real concerns, legitimate concerns. If you think I'm shutting you down, I want you to tell me – and if you feel your treatment team is not listening to you, I need you to tell me that as well."

"Okay," I said.

"You're sure?" Yash persisted.

"Yeah." I shrugged my shoulders. "It's fine."

"I'll find out why Dr McBride is here," Yash said. I could tell he wasn't completely convinced that I didn't care, but the truth was, I really didn't.

I'd been anxious about Worf's visit because I didn't want to shame him and embarrass myself, but he hadn't acted as if he'd been ashamed of me. No, he'd struggled between what he knew was right – what I'd asked him to do – and what he'd promised the captain, and he'd cloaked whatever he really thought in the same diffidence he used with everyone who didn't know him.

"Lieutenant," Stoch said, as Yash turned, once again, to go.

"Yes, Mr Stoch?" Yash turned back.

Stoch avoided looking at me, keeping his face completely composed in that Vulcan way, and I knew immediately what he was going to say.

"Goddamn it, Stoch," I said, feeling my frustration – never too far below the surface, it seemed – start to rise. "This isn't your business – "

Stoch glanced at me. "It is precisely, Commander, my business," he said. "I am not, as you say, your _nighttime minder_. I function in the same capacity as Mr da Costa – even as I am still being trained by Dr McBride and Counsellor Troi. Commander Riker," Stoch said, and he turned back to Yash, "is no longer concerned, Lieutenant, because he has made the decision to end his life. It is," and he glanced at me, "what he was discussing with Mr Worf. I have spoken already to Dr McBride about this, Commander, and that is why he is here."

Yash said, "Will. Is this true?"

"What difference does it make?" I asked. "Do you see any sharps in here? It would," I said, not looking at the piece of blanket I was slowly picking apart, "take more than one point two minutes, for example, to use this blanket in any meaningful way. So I'm not sure it matters what decision I've made, or not made, as the case may be."

"I see," Yash said. "I will get Dr McBride."

"Better you should ask Dr Sandoval if there's anything in his magic bag of tricks just to knock me out," I said. "Something that will last for twelve hours or so. It would be the simplest of solutions. Then you could _all_ have a break from me."

Yash looked at me for a moment, and I waited for him to say something, anything, that would end what little control I still had. I saw Stoch take a step towards me, out of the corner of my eye, as if he were anticipating my exploding, and then Yash said,

"Will. I'm on your side. I'll speak to Dr Sandoval, all right?"

"Whatever," I said, and I saw Stoch relax. I went back to pulling apart the blanket.

It was maybe two minutes later when McBride finally decided to make an appearance; surprisingly, he came in by himself.

"Gentlemen," he said, closing the door. "I thought I'd sit with you for a little bit, Will, if you don't mind."

"I already know why you're here," I said, "so there's no point in pretending you've just come for a chat. The only time you ever show up is when someone's decided I'm in trouble."

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he replied in a completely unconcerned tone. "However, I had actually decided I would stop in to see you, before I got the message from Stoch. So I'm not completely prevaricating."

I didn't say anything.

"You don't mind if I sit down, Will?" he asked.

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" I returned.

"Not particularly, no," he replied, smiling. He sat down in Jean-Luc's chair. "You know, Stoch, I wouldn't mind a cup of tea. If you would ask the replicator for the McBride mix, hot, please. Will? Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'm not Jean-Luc," I said, "so, no. I have a cup of water."

"Thank you, Mr Stoch," McBride said.

Stoch left the room.

"You had a good visit with your friend Lt Worf?" McBride asked.

I shrugged. "I guess," I said. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"I'm not surprised," McBride said. "Ah, thank you, Stoch." He took the mug Stoch handed him, and took a sip.

"Do you want me to stay, Doctor?" Stoch asked.

"No, I don't think I need you," McBride said. "I'm fairly sure Commander Riker's not going to be violent. I will call you, however, if that changes."

"Oh, fuck you," I said. "I haven't been violent with anyone."

"You've come close to it, though, haven't you? Today in particular," he answered. "And, of course, you've been violent with yourself."

"What the hell did I do today?" I asked. "Besides puke all over your office?"

"I could hear your conversation, just a few minutes ago, with Lt Patel. You were gearing yourself up, before Lt Patel was able to defuse the situation. And you did behave in a threatening manner in my office, although, again, it was easily handled," McBride said. "I am quite aware of your propensity for violence, Will. You channel it through martial arts and Klingon war games, but it's there."

"My propensity for violence," I repeated. "I've never done one violent thing on this ship."

"Your record says otherwise, Commander," McBride said, "but that's not why I thought I'd sit with you."

I said, "I don't really care why you thought you'd sit with me. I don't have anything to say, not to you or to Mr Stoch."

"That's fine," McBride said. "I'm not here to give you yet another therapy session. I just wanted to check in on you, find out how your visit went, see how you were handling the aftermath of our session."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I don't want to talk about Worf, and I'm handling the _aftermath_ of our session as well as can be expected."

"Good, good," McBride said. "So you're not expecting to use the blanket, then?"

I looked down at the strand of blanket I was creating.

"William," he said. "We have allowed you bed linens. Is that something we need to remove from you?"

I grinned. "So I finally get the locked ward?"

"If it's what you need, Commander," McBride said, "then, yes."

"Will you take my clothes, too?"

"Again – do I need to?"

I shrugged. "I don't see why," I said. "The longest I've been left alone, since my futile attempt at resigning my post, is one point two minutes, and that was today. I could hardly hang myself in one point two minutes."

"True," McBride agreed. "But you are intelligent, and you have shown the ability to cause harm to yourself – and to others – with improvised materials."

"So I'm held accountable, now, for something I did when I was seven and strung out on whatever they were giving me?"

"It was the medication that made you do it?" McBride said. "Is that what you'll use as an excuse this time, then?"

"There is no _this time_," I said angrily. "No one is abusing me. No one is raping me. The only person I'm likely to harm is myself, and I hardly have had the opportunity to do that."

"So is it anger, William – or displaced rage that you're feeling right now?"

"I don't even understand what you mean," I said.

"You were feeling frustration, weren't you, before Mr Worf's visit? Because you'd asked to be awakened after thirty minutes and you hadn't been? You've had difficulty in managing frustration, Will, since I've been on the ship." I didn't say anything, and McBride finished his tea, and put the mug on the floor beside him. "And then Mr Worf turned you down, when you asked him to help you commit suicide. And then you find out from Mr Stoch that he has reported your present suicidal ideation to me, which is why we're having this conversation."

"So?" I said. "I still can't do anything about it."

"And we hear from Billy," McBride said. "He's becoming increasingly harder for you to manage as well, hasn't he? And Billy, if you don't mind my saying so, is the dangerous one, out of the pair of you."

"Whatever," I said. "I'm not Billy."

"Right now? Or a minute ago?" McBride asked.

I said, "What do you _want_ from me?"

The switch happened so quickly it stunned me. He stood up, and he came over to me, and took my hands, and said, looking directly at me, "What was the last thing I said to you, before you left my office with Joao?"

"I don't remember," I said.

"Think, Will," he said. "We were talking about Jean-Luc and why he was taking respite care for tonight. What did I tell you, about tonight? What did you agree to?"

He was using that voice again. I tried to think, which was hard because I was so angry, and because I wasn't breathing – of course I wasn't breathing-

"You said I was to call you if I needed you," I answered, finally.

"And you don't think, William," he said kindly, "that your feeling so overwhelmed, and so unhappy, and so full of hopelessness and despair, that you're turning your blanket into a rope with which to hang yourself, is an indication that you should call me for help?"

I looked at the blanket and said, "No. How can you help me? How can anyone help me?"

"But I can help you," McBride said, pulling the chair closer to my bed and sitting back down. "That's why I'm here, Will. Because I can help you."

"Then why do I feel so bad? Why is it worse now, than it was before?"

"Because we have begun to dismantle your old ways of thinking, and feeling, and seeing yourself," he said, "and so you have nothing to fall back on, now. Your old ways of coping – by forgetting, by suppressing, by numbing yourself – they're gone. Instead, you're experiencing all the emotions and pain you never allowed yourself to feel before. And you have no new methods of coping to deal with them."

"You make it sound as if I'm supposed to feel this way," I said. I found that I was rubbing my head, where it was hurting again.

He smiled. "You are supposed to feel this way, Will. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, in your treatment. I never said this process would be easy, Will. I never said it wouldn't hurt, or that it wouldn't be frightening, or difficult. You are in the worst of it now. The memories are flooding back, and they are overwhelming you. As you begin to realise exactly what was done to you, the pain, and the fear, and the rage, is overpowering. I know this, Will. It's why I told you I would be here for you. It's why I told Jean-Luc to take the night off. Seeing you in this much pain would only distress him – especially since there's nothing that he can do to ease this for you, even as much as he would like to."

I said, "I have to feel this way."

"As awful as it sounds, yes."

I could feel tears running down my face. "I don't want to," I said. "It hurts too much."

"I know it hurts, Will."

"I can't do this."

"You can, do this," he said. "I'm not going to leave you alone, tonight, to face this by yourself. You have your team here, Will. We will be right here, beside you. Dr Sandoval is going to give you the new medication, and I'm going to sit right here, by your side, all night. No one expects you to do this alone."

"You're going to sit here all night?"

"Yes. We can talk – I know some very funny stories about Deanna's mother – or you can listen to some of your music – Joao programmed the computer for you, using your play list – or Mr Stoch can work on your visualisation with you. We can give you a massage. You can take another hot shower. Lt Fisk told me you're the ship's champion at poker. There are enough of us here, for a game. We will get you through tonight, and tomorrow, as my grandmother used to say, is another day."

"My head hurts," I said.

"I know," he answered. "You'll have the scan, in the morning. We will figure it out."

"You can't make it stop?" I asked. "Or you won't make it stop?"

"Think of it like a fever, Will," he said. "You've had a fever at some time in the past?"

I nodded.

"You feel hot, and then you're cold; you may have tremors; your head aches; you feel terrible. You can have seizures and hallucinations, if your fever goes to high. You want it to stop – and there's medication to make it stop – there has been for centuries. But is it a good idea, Will, to suppress a fever?"

"I don't know," I said, confused.

"Try to follow my analogy – you feel terrible, so you want it to stop. You take medication, to bring your fever down. But a fever is your body's way of fighting an infection. If you suppress your fever, you're prolonging the infection, and in a way, hurting yourself."

"You're saying that my memories are like an infection?"

"That's close to what I'm saying, although we can talk about the actual medical model I use when you're more able to understand. You are currently feeling terrible – you're in pain, you can't sleep, you're slowly starving yourself to death. You want something to make it stop, so you won't feel this way anymore. But the toxins have to work their way out of your system, Will. If I numb you – if I give you the dosage you require to simply shut you down so you don't feel this anymore – it will just prolong the illness. You have to remember and to experience what you remember, in order to let it go."

"I have to do what we did before," I said. "I have to retrieve the memories, defuse them, and put them in their proper place."

"Yes. It's just that what you're experiencing right now – this crisis, which is what it is – is a very common reaction to the breakthrough you had in therapy today. The part of you that is infected is fighting against any progress you make. You are trying to eradicate the toxin that is your father – and he's not going to go without a fight."

My head was pounding, and I closed my eyes. I heard someone come in, and then I felt McBride wipe my face with a warm rag.

"I'm right here, William," he said. "Dr Sandoval is going to give you the medication now. Just keep your eyes closed; keep yourself still."

I felt the pinch of the hypo spray in my neck.

"There," McBride said. "Thank you, Doctor. Stoch, if you'll help the commander lay back down. Be gentle; his head is hurting again."

Stoch was beside me, and I let him lay me back down in the bed and adjust the pillows behind me.

"Let's find Mr Riker a new blanket," McBride said and I heard the humour in his voice.

"Of course, sir," Stoch said, and I felt him lift the blanket from the bed.

"You aren't going to let me keep it?" I asked, my eyes still closed.

"I don't think so," he answered. "You don't really need it, even if you may think you want it."

"I can still keep my pyjamas?" I said.

"Your pyjamas, Mr Riker," he replied, "have a snap, not a drawstring."

"And you're going to be here all night," I said. I was falling asleep, the pain in my head receding.

"Yes, Will. I'll be sitting right here, in Jean-Luc's chair."

I wanted to ask him how he knew I called it that, but I didn't have the energy. "Okay," I said.

"You rest, now. Stoch and I are right here."

"The pain's going away," I said.

"That's right. Some of the pain is going away."

"I miss Jean-Luc," I whispered.

"I know, hen," McBride said. "He misses you, too."

My head had stopped hurting, and I slept.


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter Sixty

The doctor was not William's usual one, but a locum named Dr Lang. William was seated in her examining room on the table, his legs dangling off and swinging; both Mr and Mrs Shugak were in the room, squeezed into the corner, and the nurse was trying to keep William still long enough to take his vitals.

Finally, Mrs Shugak said, "William. That's enough."

He sighed and stopped swinging his legs. "I hate the doctor," he said.

The nurse said, "He has a low-grade fever. Dr Lou will be in, in a moment."

"Don't be rude, William," Mrs S said.

He said, "You won't let them take me to the hospital again?"

Mr S said, "Come here, William," and William slipped down from the table and stood beside Mr S, who wrapped one arm around his too-thin shoulders. "No one's taking you anywhere. It will be all right."

William let Mr S hold him for a minute and then he scooted away. The door opened and the doctor, a large, heavy-set woman, entered.

"Are you a giant?" William asked. He was remembering Mr S's stories of frost giants.

"You're pretty tall yourself," the doctor responded. "How old are you? Fifteen?"

William grinned. "No," he said. "I'm gonna be eight in August."

"Then I could say the same to you," the doctor replied, smiling. "You could very well be a giant yourself. I'm Doctor Lou," she said, extending her hand to William, who shook it solemnly. "Why don't you sit up here on the table and tell me what's going on?"

William scrambled back up onto the table. "If I were frost giant," he said, "I wouldn't have to see _any_ doctors anymore."

"And why is that?" Doctor Lou asked, looking at William's read-out.

William said, "Because then I'd be made out of snow, or stone, or something, and nothing would hurt anymore."

"I see," Doctor Lou said steadily. "And can you tell me what hurts, William?"

"I don't know what it is," William answered. "It just hurts inside somewhere."

"Would you mind taking your shirt off, and maybe pulling your jeans down just a little bit, so I can check your tummy?"

"Since William left the hospital, he often complains that his stomach hurts," Mrs Shugak offered. "He has a hard time eating, sometimes, because of it."

"Why were you in the hospital, William?" Doctor Lou asked, waiting for him to pull his shirt up and over his head.

William dropped his shirt on the table, and then pulled apart the velseam of his jeans and shoved them down a bit. "Some guy broke my head," he said. "It hurts sometimes, but not as much as people say it does."

"He had a skull fracture?" Doctor Lou placed her hand on William's stomach, first tapping his stomach and abdomen lightly, then pressing down. "Does it hurt when I press here?" she asked. "Or here? Or here?"

"There," William said. She was pressing on his lower abdomen.

"We are going to take some pictures of your lovely skinny body," Doctor Lou said, smiling at William. "I'll call my friend Danny to take you to the picture room, okay? He'll bring you right back here after he takes the pictures."

"I have a friend named Danny," William said, closing his jeans and reaching for his shirt. "We play baseball together." He glanced at Doctor Lou. "I've been in the biobed before, you know. I know what it is. I'm not stupid."

"I bet," Doctor Lou said, "you're good at baseball. You look like a baseball player. And I don't believe anyone thinks you're stupid, William." She opened the door and then said to Mr and Mrs S, "If you don't mind staying here for a minute, I'd like to talk to you. Janessa? Would you ask Danny to bring William to the imaging room? Thanks."

William followed Danny to the imaging room, and Danny helped him into the biobed.

"You cold, buddy?" Danny asked.

He'd put a gown on William, after stripping him down to his briefs.

"Yes, sir," William said. The sterile sheet beneath him was cold, and he shivered.

"You don't have to call me sir, little man," Danny said. "This ain't Starfleet."

"I'm going to the Academy," William told him. "I'm going to fly a starship. I'll be a captain, someday."

"Good for you," Danny said. "All right, there we go. Just a few more minutes, bud."

"It's Will," William said, "not Bud."

"And we're done," Danny said. "I'm just going to send these to Doctor Lou. Okay, Will, let's get you down from there."

"I can do it myself, if you'll let me out."

"Of course you can," Danny replied. "Your clothes are in the changing room. Just put the gown in the laundry chute, okay?"

"Sir," William said, and then he grinned.

William changed back into his clothes and followed Danny back to the examining room.

"Back up on the table, William," Doctor Lou said.

"Can I go home now? I've got baseball practise."

"Not today, William," Doctor Lou said. "You've got an infection, which is why you have a fever and why you hurt. I'm going to give you some medicine that will make you feel better, but you have to promise me that you'll take it, three times a day, every day, until it's all gone. Otherwise, your infection could not go away completely, and that's something we don't want. All right?"

"If I promise to take the medicine and not spit it out, I can go home?" William asked.

"Yes," Doctor Lou said. She bent down and looked William in the eyes. "You are not a frost giant, William, and you are not made out of stone. Your body sometimes needs help to stay healthy, and this is one of those times. Your stomach pain and your fever will go away when the infection does, and that will happen pretty quickly. If you take the medicine."

William said, looking down, "I know I'm not made of stone. I only wish I were."

Doctor Lou put her hand on William's shoulder and felt him go rigid beneath her; quietly, she removed it. "I'm going to try to help you, William," she said.

William looked up at her and his eyes were blank. "It's okay," he said. "I'll take the medicine."

He slid off the examining table, and stood beside Mr S. "Can we go now? I have to tell Rosie I won't be at practise. She'll be worried."

Mr S said, "Of course." He turned to his wife and said, "I'll take him out. We'll wait for you outside."

"I'll see you in a week, William," Doctor Lou said. "I'm sure you'll be feeling better by then."

"Uh-uh." William didn't look back.

William fell asleep in the car, and the Shugaks drove back to the village in silence. Doctor Lou seemed to know what she was doing and saying; there was Henry's insistence that Auntie Raisa and the tribal council should be involved; and Vera Kalugin had called, wanting to speak to Marty. The Shugaks knew they were walking a very fine line – Kyle Riker was, even though he pretended not to be, a very wealthy man, and he could simply pick William up and take him to San Francisco or Paris or wherever else there were Federation offices – off-world, for example. The only reason Riker kept William in the village was convenience, and, perhaps, they thought, though they didn't have to say it (when you've been married for over thirty years there's a great deal you don't need to say), it was to rub in their faces that Bette was dead and he could do what he wanted with William and no one could stop him. Tasya Shugak glanced back at William, sleeping peacefully, for once, in the backseat, and wondered if Dr Louisa Lang and Master Chief Henry Ivanov were two people Kyle Riker hadn't counted on.

William's father was home when they drove in, and he woke up, sore, in the backseat. He was groggy and feverish; Mr S simply picked him up and carried him into the house, and William let him. Kyle Riker was in his study and came out as the Shugaks entered, William half-asleep in Marty Shugak's arms.

"What did the doctor say?" Riker asked.

"He has a kidney infection," Mrs S answered. "Marty, if you'll put him to bed, I'll get him something to drink and his medication."

"A kidney infection," Riker repeated.

William said, "I have to call Rosie and tell her I'm not going to baseball practise."

"I'll call her," Mr S said, and he carried William up the stairs.

He helped William undress and put his pyjamas on, and then tucked him into the bed. There was an old-fashioned book on William's night table, and Mr S picked it up.

"Are you enjoying this?" he asked William. It was one of Bette's; she'd written her name in it.

William nodded. "My stomach hurts," he said.

"I know, Will." Mr S didn't say it was Elizaveta's book; William had enough to deal with. "Doesn't he regret what he does, in the end?"

William shrugged. "I'm not there yet," he answered sleepily. "But I wouldn't regret it, if he gets them back. I would've just killed them all."

"Here, William," Mrs S said as she came into the room. "Sit up and take your meds."

Mr S helped him sit up, and he opened his mouth and swallowed the meds with a cup of water.

"You just sleep," Mr S said to him, tucking him back in and wiping a dribble of water from his mouth. "Edmond Dantes will still be here when you wake up. And I'll call that Rosie-girl for you."

"Okay," William said, closing his eyes. "Thanks."

It was late, very late, when William was wakened by voices downstairs. The first thing he realised was that he was still in his own bed, which meant his father hadn't been to bed yet; then he saw that it was truly dark outside, and he knew it must be after midnight. His father usually came up way before then; sometimes he would wake him, sometimes not; now William was wide awake, and he slipped out of bed and found his robe. He thought he heard Rosie's father; something was wrong.

He put his robe on and found his moccasins and then he crept out of his room and to the top of the stairway. The lights were off and it was dark; no one would see him crouched by the banister. Both of Rosie's parents were here; and Matt's father, and the Shugaks. Rosie's mother was crying, softly. He could hear his father's voice, low, as if they were trying not to wake him up, and then he heard Mrs S go into the kitchen and he heard the cupboard opening – was she making coffee?

He slid down two stairs so he could hear better.

"You're sure she didn't come here, looking for William?" It sounded as if Mr Kalugin had already asked this question a million times.

His father's voice was still low, but it wasn't impatient – and that made the hair stand up on the back of William's neck. His father was _always_ impatient when people asked him the same questions again.

"We knew William wasn't going to practise," his father was saying, "Marty said he would call Rosie for William to let her know. William's too sick right now to play baseball."

Why was his father calling him William? He slid down one more step.

"I don't understand," Rosie's mother said. "She would never do this. It's not like her. She knows how dangerous it is in the bush. She'd never have gone anywhere without Patch."

William felt his stomach clench. Rosie was gone somewhere.

His father said, "There's nothing we can do now. At first light we'll call Master Chief Ivanov and we'll organise a search party. I'm sure she's safe. She's a smart girl. We'll find her."

William was absolutely still. When your life depends on the mood of someone bigger and stronger and scarier than you, you know every tone of voice, every movement, every gesture, every look. You become the master of reading little things, and William was an encyclopedia on his father.

Rosie was gone, lost somewhere in the bush.

He backed up first one step, then another, until he was back on the landing.

No. Rosie was missing, and his father was lying.

He crept back into his bedroom and dressed quickly. He hadn't exactly lied to that social worker lady who'd come last year to look at the cabin roof, when he'd told her he'd fallen from it; he'd been on the roof lots of times – he'd just never fallen from it. He put his trainers on and opened the window. The night air was chill, and he grabbed his jacket from the closet and put that on. Then he squeezed himself out the window, and pulled it almost all the way down again, once he was crouching down on the eave. He crawled over to the porch, and climbed down the pillar; then he was off and running behind the house. There was a low gibbous moon and the back was in a silver light; he veered over towards the barn, on his way to the path into the woods, down to the creek where he and Rosie had talked about his father and what Rosie knew, when he stopped, suddenly.

He'd put rocks over the place where he'd buried Mittens, and they were gone. In fact, the place where he'd buried Mittens was gone, flattened over, and swept, as if nothing had ever been disturbed. He stood, still, not knowing what to do, or where to go. He saw himself and Rosie, sitting on the bank of the creek, Rosie with her hand in his, and heard her say, "I know he hurts you." He remembered what his father had said, after he'd spoken to Henry. Rosie had known he was going to the doctor; she wouldn't have come here to pick him up for practise; she wouldn't have come here at all, unless….Choose one, his father had said.

He had chosen Rosie. He looked at the ground, where he'd buried Mittens, and then he turned around and climbed back inside.

In the morning, he went out with Bet and Patch and everyone else, including his father. The search had gone on for days, for weeks even.

It didn't matter.

Rosie was gone; and it was his fault.

William turned into stone.


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter Sixty-One

When I awoke it was seemingly very early in the morning, well before the beginning of alpha shift. McBride was still sitting beside me, writing with his archaic pen; Mr Stoch was also at his post, although he'd taken one of the other chairs and was working on a padd. Sickbay was quiet, the way it always is in the late hours. I blinked a few times and then stretched; I'd automatically turned to Jean-Luc, but, of course, he wasn't there. I sighed. My head was a dull ache and I was thirsty.

"Do you need something, Will?" McBride asked quietly.

"I'm thirsty," I said, sitting up. "My head still hurts."

"I will get you some fresh water, Commander," Stoch offered, and he left, taking the old cup of water with him.

McBride put his papers on the night table. "Still in the same place?" he asked, looking at me.

I nodded. "Is it close to alpha shift?" I asked.

"In two hours or so," McBride answered. "What kind of pain?"

"Just aching," I said.

"A number?"

I sighed again. "I've never understood that question," I said. "Four, maybe. I don't know."

"Do you want something for the pain?" he asked.

"No," I said. Stoch returned and I took the cup of water from him and drank. "Can you take me to the head?" I asked.

"Sir," Stoch answered.

McBride helped me out of the bed, and I followed Stoch to the head. I urinated and then washed my hands and splashed some water on my face.

"Will you be getting up now, sir?" Stoch asked as he returned me to my room.

I got back into the bed. "No," I answered. "There's no point to it. Why make my day longer than it already is?"

"Will you be able to sleep some more, then, William?" McBride asked. He'd sat back down in Jean-Luc's chair, but he hadn't picked up his work.

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "Am I having my visualisation with Deanna first thing, or am I having the brain scan?"

"You are scheduled for the brain scans at 0700," McBride answered.

"Why am I having this again? Did you tell me and I've forgotten?"

"They were originally scheduled because I always do brain scans of my patients with PTSD," McBride said. "The disorder affects several areas in the brain, particularly the hippocampus. I'd like to see what's happened, compare it to scans you've had before, and then I will continue to take images of your brain throughout your treatment. It will give me an accurate measure of the healing done by the hyperbaric chamber, for example, and a good idea of what neural pathways are regenerating with your therapy." He smiled. "I will show you the pictures, Will, and you'll have a better idea of what I mean." He paused and then he said, "However, I am very concerned about the continued pain where your concussion was, and the referred pain from your earlier injury. I've asked Mr Data to see if he can't retrieve the images from ProvidenceHospital of your original injury. I know that Mr da Costa told you that the pain you're experiencing is remembered pain – and there was enough evidence, early on, for that to be an accurate assessment. Still, I'd like to be positive that there isn't an injury that we're not aware of."

"Like what?" I asked, sleepily.

"My biggest concern is a small bleed," McBride said. "Your blood pressure has been very high, high enough to cause a bleed. I'd simply prefer to rule that out."

"I'm going back to sleep," I said, and I rolled over on my side, to where Jean-Luc would be sleeping, if he were with me. I could smell his cologne on the pillow, and I closed my eyes.

It was da Costa who woke me, an hour or so later. I sat up and waited for the dizziness to go away before I swung my legs around and stood up.

"Are you walking me to the shower?" I asked, heading towards the dresser to pick up my clothes.

Da Costa looked up at me, from where he was standing, and grinned. "No, Commander," he replied. "You don't have time for a shower, and you don't need your clothes. You'll be going into the biobed, sir. I think Djani is bringing a gown for you."

I looked at him. He was still grinning at me like an idiot. I said, "What do you mean, I don't have time to take a shower? It takes me five minutes to shower."

"No, sir," he answered. "No shower."

Clearly there was something I wasn't understanding. "That doesn't make any sense," I said. "And if I'm having a brain scan, why the hell do you have to take my clothes?"

"Orders," he replied succinctly. "Into the biobed, into a gown."

I looked at him suspiciously. He was still grinning. Djani came in with the gown, and I sighed. "What are you so goddamned happy about?" I said. "I had a shitty day yesterday and a shitty night, and you're standing there grinning like the village idiot."

"Actually, sir, you slept all night," da Costa said mildly, once again as if he were channeling Jean-Luc. "So even though you required Dr McBride in the early evening, it could be said that you had a better night than you usually do."

"Oh, good," I said, stripping out of my pyjamas and putting the damned gown on. "You can tell the captain not to bother with me anymore, because I do just fine without him."

"I'm not sure that I want to hear this conversation," Beverly said as she came in.

Fortunately, I'd put the gown on at that time, even though I guess there was no point – almost three weeks into fucking living in sickbay – to being modest with anyone anymore. The whole world had seen my dick.

"Good morning, Will," she continued. "You had a good night, apparently. Are you ready to go?"

"I don't even get my cup of coffee?" I asked.

"No," Beverly replied. "Just on the off chance, Will, that we find something causing your pain. No food, no water, no meds. Just you, looking beautiful in your gown."

I heard da Costa snort. "Is there a village idiot competition this morning?" I asked.

"I still control the hypo sprays, Mr Riker," Beverly said. "I'd keep that acid tongue of mine firmly in my mouth, if I were you."

I opened my mouth to say something, and she grinned at me; she was terrifying. I said, "I'll keep my mouth shut," and I heard da Costa laugh.

"That's a good boy," Beverly said. "Come on, Dr McBride is waiting for you."

"Doesn't he _ever_ sleep?" I asked as I followed her out of my room. "It's freezing out here."

"We'll get you warmed up in a minute," Beverly said.

Dr McBride was waiting for me in the isolation room. "There you are," he said. "I think that you'll find the images of your brain interesting, Will."

"Whatever," I muttered, climbing into the biobed.

I closed my eyes while everyone worked around me, starting an IV and starting the machines, and finally, warming up the bed underneath me so I didn't freeze to death.

"I've given you a small sedative, Will," McBride said to me. "Just so you won't feel claustrophobic about having the machine around your head for such a long period of time."

"I don't get claustrophobic," I answered. I could feel something warm flowing into me from the IV.

"Just relax, Will," Beverly said. "There's no pain involved in this scan. We're just taking images of your brain. You shouldn't feel any discomfort at all. If you do, I want you to tell me right away."

"I'm relaxed as I ever get, Beverly," I said irritably, and I heard McBride laugh.

"You're doing fine, Will," she responded. "I know. Just breathe, okay?"

I breathed.

"Will," McBride said, close to me. "You remember the safe space you created with Deanna on the ship?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Why don't you go ahead and visualise yourself there? Follow the instructions that Deanna gave you. Go inside wherever it is, walk around, and find yourself a comfortable spot to be."

"Okay," I said.

I closed my eyes again and pictured myself taking the turbo lift to Deck 17, opening the doors to the Arboretum, which had been cleared of people just for me. I privacy locked the doors and stood at the beginning of the path, breathing in the sweet-smelling air of the garden. Then I repeated what I'd done with Deanna; I walked the perimeter of the Arboretum, making sure everything was okay, and then I went back to where Jean-Luc and I had made love, and I sat down, leaning against the stones surrounding the pond, and I closed my eyes and slept.

When I woke, Jean-Luc was sitting beside me, holding my hand.

"We have to stop meeting like this," I said.

"Indeed," he answered.

"I thought I wasn't going to see you until tonight." I was still trying to orient myself.

"That was the original plan," Jean-Luc said. "You tend to give us these little surprises, though."

"My head still hurts," I said.

"I'm not surprised at that, Will," he answered, and he squeezed my hand. "Your Dr McBride had a feeling there was something else going on, and it turns out he was right."

"He's always right," I said. "I don't think I like him very much."

Jean-Luc smiled. "The two of you are somewhat alike, I think," he said. "It's not terribly surprising to me that you're not _liking_, as you say, him at the moment."

"You're always right, too," I said. "And I don't have a problem _liking_ you."

He laughed. "It seems to me, Number One, that you are misremembering somewhat," he said. "You didn't much care for me your first year on this ship."

I rolled my eyes. "You ran me through my paces," I said. "You had to. I understood that, Jean-Luc."

"How long has he been awake, Captain?" Beverly came in, tricorder and Ogawa in hand.

"Only a few minutes, Beverly," Jean-Luc answered.

"I had asked you, Jean-Luc," Beverly said, "to call me when he waked. How are you feeling, Will?"

I waited a moment, for Jean-Luc to reply, and when he didn't, I said, "My head is a little sore."

"Define 'sore,'" she said.

"It's not the same kind of pain as it's been," I said. "It's just sore, like I banged it or something."

"Good," Beverly said. "Your vitals look good. I'm going ahead and giving you fluids this morning. You'll be here another hour or so, Will, and then we can move you back to your room."

"What happened?" I asked. "Where's McBride?"

"Dr McBride," Beverly said, "has returned to his quarters for some much needed rest. I expect you will see him this afternoon, and he'll go over the brain scans at that time. As for what happened, as he suspected, you had a small bleed in the area where you'd been concussed, which was also where you'd sustained your original skull fracture. There was scarring and some tissue damage. It's been repaired, and as long as we can keep your blood pressure from skyrocketing, you should no longer have the kind of head pain you've been experiencing. You need, Will, to work on staying calm."

"I had a stroke?" I asked.

"In the way that any bleed is considered a stroke," Beverly answered. "It's not an uncommon side effect to the type of concussion you had, and your walls were weakened already by the untreated damage that had been done. You will be tired, and you might feel disoriented, and you will definitely not be doing anything today except resting in bed. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes," I said. "No schedule for today, then?"

"No," Beverly said. "You'll be under light sedation today. Alyssa, if you'll give him the sedative. I'll check in on you in an hour, after your fluids are done."

"Okay," I said.

After Lt Ogawa left the room, Jean-Luc said in a low voice, "Beverly."

"Yes?" She was reading something on her padd, not paying too much attention to him, and he said again, "Beverly."

There was a tone in his voice that made me want to close my eyes and just pretend I wasn't there.

It was obvious that Beverly had heard it too; she said, "Captain," and turned to look at him.

"Would you have said something to Chief O'Brien, for example, if it were Keiko who was in Commander Riker's situation?"

"Regarding?" Beverly replied in an even tone, and I could feel my hand start to shake, and then I felt Jean-Luc still it.

"Regarding the three minutes that I spent alone with William after he awoke from surgery." Jean-Luc's tone was likewise even, but I could hear the undercurrent of anger in it, and I'm sure Beverly did as well.

"Perhaps this conversation would be more appropriate in my office," Beverly said, "Captain."

"I don't think so," Jean-Luc replied. "I want William to hear this, primarily because I was not with him yesterday and last night, when he had such a difficult time." I felt him tighten his hold on my hand, and he said, in a his normal tone of voice to me, "I understand, Will, that you're feeling anxious right now, and I know the last thing either Dr Crusher or I want is to make you anxious or upset. And I know that every time someone is even mildly upset about something – especially when that someone happens to be me – you take it on yourself, as something you did – and you've done that for all the years you've been on this ship. I am a little angry right now, and you need to hear, Will, that it has nothing at all to do with anything that you have done. Can you open your eyes and let me know that you understand that?"

I opened my eyes and said, "Yes, sir."

"Will," he said patiently, "can you tell _me_ – not the captain – that you understand that you're not responsible for the way _I_ am feeling right now?"

"I know you're not angry with me, Jean-Luc," I said, and he sighed.

"I wish I could believe that you understood that," he said. "Beverly, perhaps my current relationship with William has been difficult for you – I don't know. We've both been so overwhelmed with everything that's happened that you and I – not the treatment team – haven't had any time at all to talk."

"Jean-Luc – " Beverly said.

"Please don't interrupt me," Jean-Luc returned, and I wanted to close my eyes again. "I needed time alone with William when he woke up. What I didn't need – and what Will didn't need – was what you said when you came in. It upset him unnecessarily, and it placed me in a very awkward position, a position that I should not have to defend. Do not place me – or Will – in that position again."

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," Beverly said quietly. "You're right, of course. And maybe this has been difficult for me and I've just overlooked it, because, as you've said, we've both been overwhelmed. Point taken, Captain."

"Thank you," Jean-Luc said. "And there was nothing for you to be anxious or upset about, Will. Beverly and I are still close friends, and no one is angry with you, _mon cher_."

"Okay," I said.

He rose, and then he leaned down and kissed me, lightly, on the face. "You need to rest," he said, smiling, "and I need to get back to work. I will see you this afternoon."

I nodded. I heard both Beverly and Jean-Luc leave the room; I heard Jean-Luc say something in a low voice that I couldn't quite make out, and then I heard Beverly laugh. They'd been friends for a very long time; I didn't want to be the cause of the end of their friendship. And then I realised that I'd done exactly what he'd said I'd do – I'd taken it on myself. I thought about what McBride had said about my father and his lies. It seemed to me, even as I could feel the sedative working and that I was drifting back into sleep, that my father had trained me well. Even when I was specifically told something was not my fault, I still blamed myself.


	62. Interlude: Sixteen

Interlude: Sixteen

His last meeting of the day was with that idiot Behlar, the Risian agent who was responsible for sending him the boy who was really too old for his current taste. Behlar had agreed to meet him at a small café just outside of the marketplace in Nuvia, and he was deliberately late, making sure no one was following him and that no one else was in the café. Behlar, of course, was oblivious, and not for the first time he wondered about the wisdom in allowing the agent to live. He supposed he should deal with him sooner, rather than later; the situation in deep space was deteriorating; he would be busy in San Francisco for some time, and then there was the business of his son's illness and Picard. Perhaps, he thought, after he got the information from him about the boy, he would simply terminate the man before he returned to the cottage.

He walked into the café, a smile on his face, noting with irony the genuine pleasure with which Behlar greeted him, even as his death warrant had already been signed.

He realised he was being followed well before he reached the shuttle terminal. He thought about taking evasive manoeuvres, but then it occurred to him that either the man wanted to be spotted or he was simply incompetent; either way, he was no threat. He veered into the park, across from the Federation offices where the shuttle terminal was, and wandered over to a small pond surrounded by the lush vegetation that was a trademark of Risa. He sat down on a stone bench and watched what would have been called ducks floating on the pond.

"Riker," the man said, sitting down next to him.

Riker said, "This must be an all-out emergency, for you to be so obvious."

"You might think it so, when you hear what I have to say," the man said. He was half human and half something, Riker didn't know what – so he took a deep breath, and he stilled himself, and he looked the man in the face briefly, before turning his gaze back to the pond. Betazoid.

"You won't get anything from me," Riker said, smiling thinly. "So don't even bother."

"Yes," the other man confirmed. "I'd been warned I wouldn't." He paused, and then he said, "Did you have to kill the agent that way?" He made a moue of distaste.

Riker grinned, and then he shrugged. "I am a student of history," he answered. "It seemed an appropriate death, given his tastes."

"One might say the same of your son," the other man said.

"Why?" Riker asked. "Are you planning on killing him? It seems a waste of time, considering he's determined to do so himself."

"You wanted information," the man said, after a moment. "I have it for you – the information you requested – but – " here the man paused, "– I have information you need, as well."

"Must you be so dramatic?" Riker said. "I find it tedious. Which do you intend to give me first? The information on my son, or the information they think I need?"

"Let's take a walk," the man suggested.

Riker turned his blue eyes on the man's dark ones. "Do you really think it's wise to take a walk with me?" he asked, and he smiled again.

The man shrugged. "Our mutual friend wouldn't be happy if you dispatched me," he replied. "And I prefer to be moving."

"Do you think I care," Riker asked, rising, "what our mutual friend wants or doesn't want?"

The man stood as well. "Of course you don't," he acknowledged. "However, the information I have you need – and you'll need me to return with instructions. I expect, as with most of your kind, you are ultimately pragmatic. It would be a complete waste of resources to kill me at this point."

"Well," Riker conceded, "you may be right, at that. And it's a lovely day, the flowers are blooming, and I am on vacation, after all."

He began to walk, and he heard the man behind him exhale sharply; he had to restrain himself from chuckling. The man caught up to him, and they walked quietly down the path around the pond.

"Look at the size of that turtle," Riker said. "You would think ducks wouldn't inhabit a pond with a turtle of that size in it. Stupid creatures, ducks."

The man said, "Turtles are not known for their brain size either."

Riker glanced at his companion, and then returned to the turtle. "They don't need brains," he said. "They are superbly crafted for their needs. You could give a duck a brain, but it still wouldn't elude a predator of that size and capability."

"I am not a duck," the man said, "and I have no desire whatsoever to inhabit your particular pond."

Riker laughed. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asked. "I suppose you have one of those typical Betazoid names. Tam or Mal or Lon or something."

"Renan," the man replied. "It's as good a name as any."

"Perhaps," Riker said, "you should begin, then. While it's true I am on vacation, I'm not a particularly patient man."

"Of course," Renan agreed.

Riker left the trail around the pond, and headed into the densely wooded area. Renan followed, easily able to catch up to him.

"You wanted to know about your son," Renan said in a quiet voice. "Captain Picard reported to Admiral Nechayev twenty days ago that Commander William Riker was severely injured in a 'shipboard accident,' and medical leave was requested and automatically granted. The nature of the injury was not reported. However, it has been reported from Nechayev's staff that William Riker suffered a near fatal heart attack almost a week after the initial injury was reported. At that point extended medical leave was requested and granted. Projected return to duty for Commander Riker is in six to eight weeks."

"Go on," Kyle Riker said. He continued his easy pace along the path, not looking at his companion, but simply taking in the small animals skittering out of his way and the artfully-designed groupings of plants.

"The _Enterprise_ left its mission of charting two days after Riker was injured, and arrived at Starbase 515 on the Neutral Zone, where it picked up a Betazoid doctor named Alasdair McBride," Renan continued.

"That sounds more Scots than Betazoid," Riker commented wryly.

"McBride is one-quarter Betazoid. His great-aunt is the head of the Sixth House and is quite close to Ambassador Lwaxana Troi. Troi's daughter Deanna is a lieutenant commander on the ship and is the ship's counsellor."

"I know all about Deanna Troi," Riker said. "My son had a relationship with her on Betazed when he was a lieutenant, and I'd thought he was still close to her, until Picard indicated otherwise."

"McBride is one of the most preeminent psychiatrists from Betazed," Renan said, choosing not to comment on Riker's mention of Jean-Luc Picard. "His specialty is in treating Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Staff in Nechayev's office reported that Deanna Troi had already requested training from McBride in his intensive treatment program, backed by Picard, and this had been approved by the Admiralty, which is looking to use it on galaxy and constitution class ships. However, they weren't due to pick up McBride and start the program for another month."

"So that's Will's diagnosis," Riker said, almost to himself. "It confirms that he attempted suicide, as his original 'shipboard injury.' And yet the Admiralty doesn't have this information – he's still on the _Enterprise_, being treated by this McBride."

"Yes."

Riker stopped on a small wooden bridge, overlooking a rapidly flowing creek. He stood silently, leaning against the bridge, gazing into the water. He could see fish, suspended in the rapids.

"Interesting," Riker said noncommittally. Then he said, "Does the Admiralty know that he's in a relationship with Picard?"

"Our mutual friend does," Renan answered. "The Admiralty does not. Why would it care?"

"Because Picard has lied to them about my son's suicide attempt and his diagnosis, clearly in an effort to keep Will both on the ship and in the service," Riker answered. "He should have been medically-discharged and sent to the psychiatric facility in San Francisco."

"The_Enterprise_ is currently very far from San Francisco," Renan said. "I'm sure that was a factor."

"Then why not leave him on Starbase 515?" Riker asked. "You said you had other information."

"Yes." This time Renan eyed him anxiously.

"Oh, I won't kill you," Riker said airily. "Lately my limit has been reduced to one a day."

"McBride has resources," Renan told him. "Serious resources. He is looking for you – and he has found information on your family. Not much, but the person who is looking on his behalf is quite powerful in his own right. Our mutual friend is concerned."

"Picard indicated to me that my son has 'remembered' certain events," Riker said. "He implied that these events are of great wrongdoing on my part." Riker shrugged. "My son has always been unstable. Even when he was a little boy, he was unstable. He was committed as a child. He can _remember_," Riker said, "whatever he chooses."

Renan said cautiously, "Our mutual friend knows you very well, Captain. Whatever your son has remembered is likely to be true."

Riker smiled slowly at the other man, showing just a glimpse of his teeth, and then bent him over the railing of the bridge, his hands casually around the other man's throat.

"Just who," Riker said calmly, "are you calling 'Captain'?"

Renan couldn't speak.

"Please remember," Riker said, "that just because my limit has dropped to one a day, it doesn't mean that I can't up it if I choose to," and he let Renan go.

Renan coughed. "Alasdair McBride is an important man," he said, his voice temporarily scratchy. "He is the great-nephew of the ruler of the Sixth House. Your son is 'imzadi' to the daughter of the heir to the Fifth House. And while Nechayev may hate Picard and wish to see him removed – and your son as well – Picard is supported by many other people,_ including_ the heir to Betazed's Fifth House. Our mutual friend would like you to be careful. You may want to curb your –" he faltered, and then said, "your tendencies. Perhaps it was a good thing that poor Mr Behlar met his unfortunate accident."

"Does our mutual friend," and Riker said this in what seemed to be a gentle sneer, "know who it is who is doing the looking?"

"If he did," Renan replied honestly, "he certainly wouldn't tell me."

Riker began to walk again, this time back the way they came, and Renan hurried to catch up.

"You may tell _our mutual friend_," and Renan was sure he was sneering now, "that the message has been received."

"Sir," Renan answered.

"If you say that in a populated area," Riker said companionably, "I shall be forced to kill you."

Renan said nothing, and the two of them walked out of the wooded garden and back to the pond. Riker nodded briefly to Renan, who returned to sitting on the bench, and walked quietly but purposefully away from the garden. He crossed the street to the shuttle terminal, where his shuttle and its pilot were waiting for him, and made himself comfortable.

The shuttle took off for the coast, and Riker leaned back in his seat, wondering what the boy Billy had been up to, and he smiled, remembering that he'd promised the boy something new when he returned.


	63. Interlude: Seventeen

Interlude: Seventeen

Picard stirred, and, half asleep, found himself turning to Will, who, of course, wasn't there. He swore quietly and sat up. He was in his quarters, not sickbay; and while it was true that he'd actually slept all night, he was surprised to find himself feeling irritable and out of sorts. It came as a shock to him what the problem was – he was sixty-seven years old, for heaven's sake. Ironically he wondered if this meant if maybe his hair might grow back too, and he solved the problem of his irritability the way he had when he was younger, with a very long, very hot shower.

He was just finishing using the depilatory when he heard Beverly's voice come over his comm. badge,

"Crusher to Picard."

"Picard here," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Captain," Beverly said, "I just wanted to remind you that Commander Riker will be undergoing the brain scans at 0700 this morning."

"Acknowledged," he replied, putting things away and leaving the head. "Keep me informed, Doctor. Picard out."

He was due on the bridge, and he had a quick breakfast, a couple of sips of tea and half a croissant, and then left his quarters. At dinner in Ten Forward, McBride and Beverly had explained the purpose of the brain scans, and then they had both expressed their concerns that there was the possibility of a small bleed that was the primary cause for Will's intense pain. Although Beverly had done her best, for him, to mitigate the seriousness of their concern by explaining that it was, in fact, a common symptom to the type of concussion that Will had suffered in the holodeck, Picard was well aware of the dangers of brain bleeds – it was what his father had died from, after all. And Will's blood pressure was very high, more often than not.

He strode onto the bridge, and received the ship from Mr Data, who had continued his night shift duties, despite his being promoted to Acting First. He listened to Data's report – they would be arriving at the Starbase on Lya III in five hours – and then he relieved him.

"Oh, and Mr Data," Picard said, as he took his seat.

"Yes, sir?" Data asked.

"Your plans for this morning?" Picard asked, reading the various reports which had been submitted.

"I am meeting Commander LaForge in engineering," Data said. "Then there is a meeting with Counsellor Troi to go over a personnel issue, and then there is Commander Riker's navigational class, which I am teaching –"

"Mr Data," Picard said, and Data stopped.

"Yes, sir?"

"There is the distinct possibility that Commander Riker will be undergoing a surgical procedure this morning," Picard said levelly. He knew that the curiosity regarding Will's condition had reached epidemic proportions and while he didn't want to add to it, he needed his point made. He heard Worf make a slight sound behind him.

"Yes, sir," Data said. "Captain, may I enquire as to the nature – "

"No, you may not," Picard said shortly. "My concern, Mr Data, is the mission we have on hand. I will need you to escort the ambassadors, as I may be unavailable. To that end, Mr Data, I suggest you use the next few hours to rest. You can reschedule your meeting with Commander LaForge and Counsellor Troi, and I am sure the navigational class will appreciate your giving them the day off."

"May I remind you, sir," Data said, "that I have no real need of rest?"

Picard sighed. "No, Mr Data," he replied, "you may not."

"Aye, sir," Data said. "In that case, I will reschedule the meetings."

Data left, and Picard was acutely aware of the presence of Worf behind him. Well, he thought, Worf would have to wait. Once he heard from Beverly and McBride, he would have a brief discussion with Worf on his visit with Will. He continued to peruse the reports that had been tendered, allowing himself to relax into the routine of being on the bridge. It had been a long journey, first from Starbase 515 and then to Starbase 514 and now on to Lya III; perhaps some shore leave might be in order. Will's absence had made itself felt throughout the ship. Shore leave might be just the way to slow things down and eliminate the gossip. Distraction was always a useful tool.

It was now 0720, and Picard had hoped for news from Beverly before now, as unreasonable as that probably was. He needed to spend at least an hour on the bridge, and he forced himself to focus. He sat for another quarter hour, his fingers drumming on his arm rest, the conspicuous absence on his port side looming large in his mind. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and he said tersely,

"You have the bridge, Mr Worf," and fled to his ready room.

He ordered the tea he'd forgotten to drink earlier, and he wished that he could have met with Beverly for breakfast this morning. Of course, that was impossible, and he wondered if this need of his, to have everything as it had always been, was yet one more sign of aging. If so, perhaps it was well past time that he shook things up. Then he grinned, suddenly; he could certainly count on his Number One for that.

He checked his communications, and saw that there was a report from McBride that he had missed, from earlier; it had been written at about 0530. He read it quickly, with growing concern, and then he stood up, and ordered another mug of tea from the replicator, and then found himself gazing out at the stars as they warped by.

He'd been correct, then, that Will would ask Worf to help him take his own life, and he was glad, regardless of the position it left Worf in, that he'd briefed Worf beforehand and had had the foresight to ask him to turn Will down. But Will's reaction to his breakthrough in therapy, even though McBride had warned them, last night in Ten Forward, that it was likely, shocked him nonetheless. He would give his thanks, then, to young Stoch, who'd realised what was happening and had called McBride. And McBride – well, McBride deserved the reputation he had.

Will had been working on the blanket for quite a while.

He hadn't seen it at all.

He wondered if Will had other contingency plans. Perhaps a search of Will's room, the next time he was at PT, might be in order.

And then he thought, just what was he doing? Didn't he believe that each individual had the right to self-determination, even in death? Hadn't he told that to Beverly, when it had been Worf who was contemplating controlling his own death? Hadn't that been something he'd learned, from his heart operations, that it was an intrinsic right of all peoples? Not to be forced by one's society into that decision, but to be able to decide for oneself, in the face of great loss and even greater pain, that letting go was an appropriate choice?

Who was he, Jean-Luc Picard, to forbid Will to choose his own time of death? He knew that Will was afraid that he would no longer have a career; that he would no longer be able to function as first officer of the ship. He knew that Will believed he had few options; that he had no family, other than the father who had tortured him; that he had no home, other than the _Enterprise_ herself. Was he wrong in believing that his love for Will should be enough? Could Will remain on the ship as his companion and not as First Officer?

McBride was convinced that he could heal Will, even in the face of Will's continued suicidal ideation and his poor physical health. But healing was not a cure, Picard knew – would it be enough?

He thought, briefly, that if he didn't hear from Beverly soon he would swallow his damnable pride and go to sickbay.

The voice, when it came, over his comm. badge was McBride's, however, not Beverly's, and he wondered who had outfitted McBride with a comm. badge – and then he wondered why it hadn't been done sooner.

"Picard," he responded.

"The surgery was successful, Captain," McBride said. "Perhaps you should come to sickbay, and Dr Crusher and I will fill you in."

Picard was silent, and then he said, "You found a bleed, then?"

"Yes," McBride said. "A small one."

"Commander Riker is in recovery, then?" Picard stood up, and placed his mug in the receptacle.

"Yes," McBride said. "He should be waking in half an hour or so."

"On my way," Picard said. "Picard out."

He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he tugged his tunic down and returned to the bridge.

"Mr Worf," he said. "The surgery on Mr Riker was successful, and I am on my way to sickbay for a briefing. You have the conn."

"Aye, sir," Worf said.

"I will inform Mr Data," Picard added, and he headed to the turbo lift.

He met McBride and Beverly in the conference room, where the holographic images of Will's brain scans were placed carefully across the table. Da Costa, normally with Will, was present, along with most of Will's team – Lt Patel, Lt Otaka, and Deanna.

"Captain," McBride said. "I know you are anxious to see William, so we'll keep this brief and to the point for you."

"Thank you, Doctor," he replied, taking his seat next to Deanna and da Costa.

Beverly said, "Will had, as we feared, a small bleed in the same area of the brain where he'd had his concussion four weeks ago. It was also very close to the area where he'd had the original skull fracture, when he was a child. We found some damage at that site, in terms of scar tissue and some atrophying, and we were able to repair both the bleed and the old damage. His recovery should only take a day or so, all things considered. He will remain under light sedation today, and he may be able to return to a light schedule tomorrow. I anticipate his returning to his normal schedule in forty-eight hours."

"Dr Crusher," McBride said enthusiastically, "is a wonderful surgeon, and you are very lucky to have her."

"Indeed," Picard said. "Will Commander Riker remain in the isolation unit today then?"

"He should be fine to return to his room, once he wakes," Beverly answered. "Again, depending on his medical status."

"Good," Picard said. "You have the images from the brain scans here?"

"Yes," McBride said. "I wanted to show these to you and the team, before I show them to Will." McBride picked up one of the holographic images. "This is the brain of an average male, around Commander Riker's age. It's necessary for you to be able to judge the difference between a typical brain and one with PTSD. The areas I want you to pay attention to are the hippocampus, here, the prefrontal cortex here and the amygdala. Notice the size and the structure of each area."

"Yes," Picard said.

"This is Commander Riker's brain," McBride said. "The hippocampus here, the prefrontal cortex, and the amygdala."

"You can see, Captain," da Costa said, "that there is major shrinkage of the hippocampus, and cell atrophying and cell loss in all three areas."

The picture, to Picard, was quite terrifying. It was one thing, he thought, to see how Will couldn't function – to witness the over-emotionalism, the hysteria, the flashbacks, the night terrors, the inability to comprehend. It was quite another to see that his brain was so damaged, so completely different, from what it was supposed to look like. It wasn't, Picard thought, because he hadn't believed that this was, indeed, a real illness; but he hadn't really understood – at least not emotionally – that the psychiatric was physical. He remembered what McBride had said, the first day he'd arrived. The brain is an organ, he'd said, just as the heart, the lungs, the liver are. And then he remembered what Will had told him, the one morning after his first bout with hysteria. I'm not me, he'd said. My brain doesn't work anymore. Nothing connects anymore.

"Captain?" Deanna was beside him, her hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just – " Picard stopped, because he wasn't sure what he could say. Shocked? Frightened? "How can this be healed?"

"Of course you are worried and concerned," McBride said, and Picard could hear that he was using the same calming tone of voice he used to Will with him. "I have a holographic image – a before and after image, if you will – of another patient of mine. Here is this patient's brain, before treatment. This patient suffered from a similar diagnosis as William's – severe complex PTSD. The trauma, as it is with Will, was the same – chronic sexual abuse as a child. This too is a male patient – the difference in female patients is too significant to use for comparison purposes. You can see, Captain, the similarity in damage done to those three areas of the brain."

"Yes," Picard agreed.

"This patient likewise underwent my eight-week intensive treatment program, on Starbase 515, as an inpatient, the same again as with Commander Riker. Here is the holographic image of the patient's brain, post treatment – eight weeks later."

"How is that possible?" Picard asked.

"It's possible, Captain," McBride said, "because the human brain is hardwired to heal itself, given the opportunity to do so."

"After treatment, will his brain continue to heal in this fashion?"

"Commander Riker will graduate from the intensive treatment program to a more normal, outpatient program," McBride explained. "It's part of the training that I'm completing on this ship. He will continue to receive certain therapies – CBT, the hyperbaric chamber – on an ongoing, outpatient basis, as other aspects of his illness are dealt with. Ideally he will have the tools to continue to heal himself long after his outpatient therapy ends."

"And you're going to show him this?" Picard asked. He paused, and then he said, "Will he understand what you're showing him?"

"He will find it a relief, Captain," Deanna said. "Many patients fear the labels that are associated with this disorder – and Will has frequently referred to himself, especially in the last few days, as 'crazy.' He can now see that it's brain function that is the cause of many of his symptoms."

"Can you give me an example?" Picard asked. He was still staring at the two holographic images, the one of Will's brain, and the one that was post-treatment.

"The hippocampus," McBride said, "is the area of the brain that controls emotions, and our ability to identify and articulate what we are feeling. This area has atrophied, because of the constant neuro-chemical washes of adrenaline and dopamine that are associated with stress and trauma. Will has a pronounced inability – a disconnect, if you like – to understand and name what he is feeling. Thus affect management is a major component of the cognitive behaviour therapy he'll be receiving."

"He says he's calm, when he's anxious," Picard said.

"Or, yesterday, in therapy, he was feeling rage, which he confused with anger," McBride said. "We have literally hundreds of words in our languages to cover every nuance of feeling. Will's emotional vocabulary probably only includes ten."

"I'd like to see him now," Picard said. He didn't want Will to wake up alone. And he needed time to digest this information – and time to handle his own fears.

"Of course, Jean-Luc," Beverly said.

"Thank you, Doctor," Picard said to McBride, before he remembered he was supposed to be calling the man "Sandy." He sighed. He didn't know that he could call any adult "Sandy."

"Will you have time, Jean-Luc," McBride said, "to talk with me for a little bit this afternoon, do you think? Fourteen hundred hours or so? I'd like to discuss what happened in Will's therapy yesterday, as it pertains to you."

Picard stopped, and looked up. It was hard to make the adjustments McBride required of him – one minute he was the captain, discussing the prognosis of his first officer; now he was Will's – how did McBride put it? – caregiving partner.

He was glad he'd given Mr Data time off.

"Of course," he said.

"In my office, then," McBride added.

Picard nodded, and walked with Beverly into the isolation unit. Beverly took Will's vitals and said, "He should be waking soon, Jean-Luc. Call me as soon as he does."

"Yes," Picard answered.

He sat down in his usual chair and took Will's hand, covering it with his own. Will stirred, and he opened his eyes.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Will said,

and Picard resisted the urge just to take him into his arms. This, he knew, was why he would not let Will go.

"Indeed," Picard replied.


End file.
